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Samuel Daniel

The wise are above books.

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The stars that have most glory have no rest.

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We come to know best what men are, in their worse jeopardizes.

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Custom, that is before all law; Nature, that is above all art.

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And for the few that only lend their ear, That few is all the world.

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Striving to tell his woes, words would not come; For light cares speak, when mighty griefs are dumb.

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Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using.

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By adversity are wrought the greatest works of admiration, and all the fair examples of renown, out of distress and misery are grown.

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Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew, Whose short refresh upon tender green, Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth show And straight is gone, as it had never been.

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Love is a Sickness

LOVE is a sickness full of woes,
   All remedies refusing;
A plant that with most cutting grows,
   Most barren with best using.
   Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries--
   Heigh ho!

Love is a torment of the mind,
   A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind
   Not well, nor full nor fasting.
   Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries--
   Heigh ho!

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