Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With the charm of earliest birds.

Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil. Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise that last infirmity of noble mind, to scorn delights, and live laborious days.

Let none admire / That riches grow in hell; that soil may best / Deserve the precious bane.

Confidence imparts a wonderful inspiration to its possessor.

The childhood shows the man as morning shows the day.

They who have put out the people's eyes, reproach them of their blindness.

When I consider how my light is spent, / E're half my days, in this dark world and wide, / And that one talent which is death to hide / Lodged with me useless.

Now came still evening on, and twilight gray had in her sober livery all things clad.

Then to the well-trod stage anon, / If Jonson's learned sock be on, / Or sweetest Shakespeare fancy child, / Warble his native wood-notes wild.

With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, / Confusion worse confounded.