Good Men Are The Stars,

Minds That Are Great And Free, Should Not On Fortune Pause: 'tis Crown Enough To Virtue Still, Her Own Applause.

A New Disease? I Know Not, New Or Old, But It May Well Be Called Poor Mortals Plague For, Like A Pestilence, It Doth Infect The Houses Of The Brain Till Not A Thought, Or Motion, In The Mind, Be Free From The Black Poison Of Suspect.

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.

Sweet Meat Must Have Sour Sauce.

Great Honours Are Great Burdens, But On Whom They Are Cast With Envy, He Doth Bear Two Loads.