Striving to tell his woes, words would not come; For light cares speak, when mighty griefs are dumb.
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The wise are above books.
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Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using.
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And for the few that only lend their ear, That few is all the world.
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By adversity are wrought the greatest works of admiration, and all the fair examples of renown, out of distress and misery are grown.
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Custom, that is before all law; Nature, that is above all art.
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The stars that have most glory have no rest.
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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.
