Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew, Whose short refresh upon tender green, Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth show And straight is gone, as it had never been.
Custom, that is before all law; Nature, that is above all art.
The wise are above books.
And for the few that only lend their ear, That few is all the world.
Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using.
Striving to tell his woes, words would not come; For light cares speak, when mighty griefs are dumb.
The stars that have most glory have no rest.
We come to know best what men are, in their worse jeopardizes.
By adversity are wrought the greatest works of admiration, and all the fair examples of renown, out of distress and misery are grown.