For He That Once Is Good, Is

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.

No Glass Renders A Man's Form Or Likeness So True As His Speech.

Language Most Shows A Man, Speak That I May See Thee.

The Poet Is The Nearest Borderer Upon The Orator.

How Fortune Piles Her Sports When She Begins To Practise Them!