O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.

She has a housewife's hand; but that's no matter: I say she never did invent this letter; This is a man's invention and his hand.

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.

O! Let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; keep me in temper; I would not be mad!

Fire that's closest kept burns most of all.

The fire i' th' flint Shows not till it be struck; our gentle flame Provokes itself and like the current flies Each bound it chafes.