Help, master, help! here's a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man's right in the law; 'twill hardly come out.

Fall Greeks; fail fame; honour or go or stay; My major vow lies here, this I'll obey.

Let us be Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon

'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed, When not to be, receives reproach of being, And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed, Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing.

The big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose, In piteous chase.

Good things should be praised.

What power is it which mounts my love so high, that makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye