Poets, like whores, are only hated by each other.
Have as much good nature as good sense since they generally are companions.
A beauty masked, like the sun in eclipse, gathers together more gazers than if it shined out.
Poets, like friends to whom you are in debt, you hate.
Ceremony and great professing renders friendship as much suspect as it does religion.
Women serve but to keep a man from better company.