O! what a prodigal have I been of that most valuable of all…

Methinks, I see the wanton houres flee, And as they passe, turne back and laugh at me.

We might well call this short Mock-play of ours A Posie made of Weeds instead of Flowers; Yet such have been presented to your noses, And there are such, I fear, who thought 'em Roses.

She that would raise a noble love must find Ways to beget a passion for her mind; She must be that which she to the world would seem, For all true love is grounded on esteem: Plainness and truth gain more a generous heart Than all the …

The world is made up, for the most part, of fools and knaves, both irreconcileable foes to truth.

The world's a wood, in which all lose their way, Though by a different path each goes astray.

Our Poets make us laugh at Tragœdy, And with their Comoedies they make us cry.