The World Knows Only Two, That's Rome

Thy Praise Or Dispraise Is To Me Alike; One Doth Not Stroke Me, Nor The Other Strike.

He That Would Have His Virtue Published, Is Not The Servant Of Virtue, But Glory.

Though I Am Young, And Cannot Tell Either What Death Or Love Is Well, Yet I Have Heard They Both Bear Darts, And Both Do Aim At Human Hearts. And Then Again, I Have Been Told Love Wounds With Heat, As Death With Cold; So That I Fear They Do But Bring Extremes To Touch, And Mean One Thing. As In A Ruin We It Call One Thing To Be Blown Up, Or Fall; Or To Our End Like Way May Have By A Flash Of Lightning, Or A Wave; So Love’s Inflamèd Shaft Or Brand May Kill As Soon As Death’s Cold Hand; Except Love’s Fires The Virtue Have To Fight The Frost Out Of The Grave.

I Would Rather Have A Plain Down-right Wisdom Than A Foolish And Affected Eloquence.

Queen And Huntress, Chaste And Fair Now The Sun Is Laid To Sleep, Seated In Thy Silver Chair, State In Wonted Manner Keep: Hesperus Entreats Thy Light Goddess, Excellently Bright.