And for the few that only lend their ear, That few is all the world.

Man is a creature of a willful head, And hardly driven is, but eas’ly led.

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born; Relive my languish, and restore the light.

And who in time knows whither we may vent the treasure of our tongue, to what strange shores this gain of our best glories shall be sent, ’t unknowing Nations with our stores? What worlds in the yet unformed Occident may come refined with the accents that are ours?

The greatest works of admiration, And all the fair examples of renown. Out of distress and misery are grown.

The absent danger greater still appears less fears he who is near the thing he fears.

Th aspirer, once attaind unto the top, Cuts off those means by which himself got up.

But years hath done this wrong, To make me write too much, and live too long.

This many-headed monster, Multitude.

When better cherries are not to be had, We needs must take the seeming best of bad.