“Grave was the man in years, in looks, in word, his locks were grey, yet was his courage green.”

Any time not spent on love is wasted.

For when last need to desperation driveth, Who dareth most he wiseth counsel giveth.

Lost is the time that you don’t spend for love.

Perhaps if only once you did enjoy The thousandth part of all the happiness A heart beloved enjoys, returning love, Repentant, you would surely sighing say, “All time is truly lost and gone Which is not spent in serving love.”

A friend giveth sympathy in trouble.

A fool is he that comes to preach or prate, When men with swords their right and wrong debate.

It is the fortunate who should extol fortune.

Not for no cold did freeze, Nor any cloud beguile Th’eternal flowering spring

They make their fortune who are stout and wise, Wit rules the heavens, discretion guides the skies.

True love cannot be found where it does not exist, nor can it be denied where it does.

None merits the name of Creator but God and the poet.

O subtle love! a thousand wiles thou hast, by humble suit, by service, or by hire, to win a maiden’s hold,–a thing soon done, for nature framed all women to be won.

Then amongst flowers and springs, Making delightful sport, Sat lovers without conflict, without flame

He, full of bashfulness and truth, loved much, hoped little, and desired naught.

Virtue’s guard is labor; ease, her sleep.

The day of fortune is like a harvest day, We must be busy when the corn is ripe.

Never the grave gives back what it has won!

We go to the grave of a friend saying, “A man is dead,” but angels throng about him saying, “A man is born.”

All along this path I tread, my heart betrays my weary head, with nothing but my love to save, from the cradle to the grave.

[On being indecisive and changeable:] On my gravestone I want inscribed: ‘On the other hand, maybe I should have lived.

Every man should keep a fair-sized cemetery in which to bury the faults of his friends.

You have come into a hard world. I know of only one easy place in it, and that is the grave.

The past was but the cemetery of our illusions: one simply stubbed one’s toes on the gravestones.

It is an in, a grave evil and a disturbance of the right order, for a larger and higher organisation, to arrogate to itself functions which can be performed efficiently by smaller and lower bodies.