Death is the looking-glass of life wherein

Know, Nature, like the cuckoo, laughs at law, Placing her eggs in whatso nest she will.

And Clara dies that Claribel may dance.

Let your house Be spacious more than splendid, and be books And busts your most conspicuous furniture.

Friendship craves The commerce of the mind, not the exchange Of emulous feasts that foster sycophants.

Then, without toil, by vale and mountain side, Men found their few and simple wants supplied; Plenty, like dew, dropped subtle from the air, And Earth's fair gifts rose prodigal as prayer. Love, with no charms except its own to lure, Was …

Friendship, 'tis said, is love without his wings, And friendship, sir, is sweet enough for me.