When Death doth close his tender dying eyes.

You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!

Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak; Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit, Smother'd in errors, feeble, shallow, weak, The folded meaning of your words' deceit.

Who soars too near the sun, with golden wings, melts them.

Such men as he be never at heart's ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves, And therefore are they very dangerous.

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

For honesty coupled to beauty, is to have honey a sauce to sugar.