See what a grace was seated on this brow, / Hyperion’s curls, the front of Jove himself, / An eye like Mars, to threaten and command, / A station like the herald Mercury / New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul / That not your trespass, but my madness speaks.

O'er whom his very madness, like some ore / Among a mineral of metals base, / Shows itself pure. He weeps for what is done.

We go to gain a little patch of ground / That hath in it no profit but the name. / To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it; / Nor will it yield to Norway or the Pole / A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee.

This is th'imposthume of much wealth and peace, / That inward breaks, and shows no cause without / Why the man dies.

The Queen his mother / Lives almost by his looks; and for myself,— / My virtue or my plague, be it either which,— / She’s so conjunctive to my life and soul, / That, as the star moves not but in his sphere, / I could not but by her.

the great love the general gender bear him, / Who, dipping all his faults in their affection, / Would like the spring that turneth wood to stone, / Convert his gyves to graces;

If this had not been a gentlewoman, she should have been buried out o' Christian burial.

And the more pity that great folk should have countenance in this world to drown or hang themselves more than their even Christian.

the age is grown so picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier he galls his kibe.—