Music hath charm to soothe a savage breast, To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.

Soft is the music that would charm for ever;The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.

One had a lovely face, and two or three had charm, but charm and face were in vain. Because the mountain grass cannot keep the form where the mountain hare has lain.

Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.

A hungry wolf at all the herd will run, In hopes, through many, to make sure of one.

No, I'm no enemy to learning; it hurts not me.