“Life is not living, but living in health.”

I’m what I seem; not any dyer gave, But nature dyed this colour that I have.

Some good, some so-so, and lots plain bad: that’s how a book of poems is made, my Friend.

Can the fish love the fisherman?

Tis easy to write epigrams nicely, but to write a book is hard.

For wealth’s now given to none but to the rich.

Red-haired, black-lipped, club-footed, and blink-eyed; if you’re a good man, you’re a wonder!

Why do I not kiss you, Philaenis? you are bald. Why do I not kiss you, Philaenis? you are carrotty. Why do I not kiss you, Philaenis? you are one-eyed. He who kisses you, Philaenis, sins against nature.

The virtuous man is never a novice in worldly things.

She grieves sincerely who grieves unseen.

You crystal break, for fear of breaking it: Careless and careful hands like faults commit.

You’re obstinate, pliant, merry, morose, all at once. For me there’s no living with you, or without you.

Rarity gives a charm; so early fruits and winter roses are the most prized; and coyness sets off an extravagant mistress, while the door always open tempts no suitor.

Man loves malice, but not against one-eyed men nor the unfortunate, but against the fortunate and proud.

Gifts are like fish-hooks; for who is not aware that the greedy char is deceived by the fly which he swallows?

It is as good as second life to be able to look back upon our past life with pleasure.

Some things are good, some middling, more bad.