For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world, And where thou art not, desolation.

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

For where is any author in the world Teaches such beauty as a woman's eye?

They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad

The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.

When I was at home I was in a better place

How many things by season seasoned are To their right praise and true perfection!