“It is a hard and nice subject for a man to speak of himself: it grates his own heart to say anything of disparagement, and the reader’s ear to hear anything of praise from him.”

And I myself a Catholic will be, So far at least, great saint, to pray to thee. Hail, Bard triumphant! and some care bestow On us, the Poets militant below.

Life for delays and doubts no time does give, None ever yet made haste enough to live.

Thus would I double my life’s fading space;For he that runs it well, runs twice his race.

Man is too near all kinds of beasts,–a fawning dog, a roaring lion, a thieving fox, a robbing wolf, a dissembling crocodile, a treacherous decoy, and a rapacious vulture.

I never had any other desire so strong, and so like covetousness, as that

The motions strait, and round, and swift, and slow, And short and long, were mixt and woven so, Did in such artful Figures smoothly fall, As made this decent measur’d dance of all. And this is Musick.

All the world’s bravery that delights our eyes is but thy several liveries.

Gold begets in brethren hate; Gold in families debate; Gold does friendship separate; Gold does civil wars create.

Why to mute fish should’st thou thyself discoverAnd not to me, thy no less silent lover?

Enjoy the present hour, Be thankful for the past, And neither fear nor wish Th’ approaches of the last.

Why dost thou build up stately rooms on high, Thou who art under ground to lie? Thou sow’st and plantest, but no fruit must see, For death, alas! is reaping thee.

There Daphne’s Lover stopped, and thought it much The very leaves of her to touch: But Harvey, our Apollo, stopp’d not so; Into the Bark and Root he after her did go!

His time’s forever, everywhere his place.

I confess I love littleness almost in all things. A little convenient estate, a little cheerful house, a little company, and a little feast.

Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!

Neither the praise nor the blame is our own.