Our best life is to die well: for living here we enjoy nothing:…

There be foure good mothers have foure bad daughters: Trueth hath Hatred; Prosperity hath Pride; Security hath Perill; and Familiarity hath Contempt.

A faire woman is a paradise to the eye, a purgatorye to the purse, and a hell to the soule.

Crush the serpent in the head, Break ill egs yer they be hatched. Kill bad chickens in the tread, Fledge[d] they hardly can be catched. In the rising stifle ill, Lest it grow against thy will.

But see! the pains begin to fly; Tho’ Venus bled she could not die: See the new phœnix point her eyes, And lovelier from her ashes rise.

Brighter from her disease she shines, As fire the precious gold refines. Thus when the silent grave becomes Pregnant with life as fruitful wombs; When the wide seas and spacious earth Resign us to our second birth;

'Tis the night—the night Of the grave's delight, And the warlocks are at their play! Ye think that without, The wild winds shout, But no, it is they—it is they!