O England! Model to thy inward greatness, like little body with a might heart.

Sometimes, less is more.

O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.

I have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.

Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame.

Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving.

The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair: The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair; A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath; But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.