He Uses His Folly Like A Stalking-horse,

To Weep Is To Make Less The Depth Of Grief.

For Naught So Vile That On The Earth Doth Live But To The Earth Some Special Good Doth Give.

How Much More Doth Beauty Beauteous Seem By That Sweet Ornament Which Truth Doth Give!

Call Me What Instrument You Will, Though You Can Fret Me, You Cannot Play Upon Me.

He's Of The Colour Of The Nutmeg. And Of The Heat Of The Ginger.... He Is Pure Air And Fire; And The Dull Elements Of Earth And Water Never Appear In Him, But Only In Patient Stillness While His Rider Mounts Him; He Is Indeed A Horse, And All Other Jades You May Call Beasts.