In sweet music is such art: killing care and grief of heart fall asleep, or hearing, die.

I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?

And simple truth miscalled simplicity

Glory is like a circle in the water, which never ceaseth to enlarge itself, till, by broad spreading, it disperse to naught.

Things in motion sooner catch the eye than what not stirs.

The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.

As you from crimes would pardon'd be, Let your indulgence set me free.