From women's eyes this doctrine I derive: They sparkle still the right Promethean fire; They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain and nourish all the world.

On the bat’s back I do fly After summer merrily.

Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds.

Verily, I swear, it is better to be lowly born, and range with humble livers in content, than to be perked up in a glistering grief, and wear a golden sorrow.

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

Frame your mind to mirth and merriment which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.

Now the melancholy God protect thee, and the tailor make thy garments of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is opal.