“I am Envy...I cannot read and therefore wish all books burned.”

“I am Envy, begotten of a chimney-sweeper and an oyster-wife. I cannot read, and therefore wish all books were burnt; I am lean with seeing others eat - O that there would come a famine through all the world, that all might die, and I live alone; then thou should'st see how fat I would be! But must thou sit and I stand? Come down, with a vengeance!”

“Mephistopheles: Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it.Think'st thou that I, who saw the face of GodAnd tasted the eternal joys of heaven,Am not tormented with ten thousand hellsIn being deprived of everlasting bliss?”

“I am Wrath. I had neither father nor mother: I leaped out of a lion's mouth when I was scarce half an hour old, and ever since I have run up and down the world, with this case of rapiers, wounding myself when I had nobody to fight withal. I was born in hell - and look to it, for some of you shall be my father.”

“Had I as many souls as there be stars, I'd give them all for Mephistopheles!”

“We which were Ovids five books, now are three,For these before the rest preferreth he:If reading five thou plainst of tediousnesse,Two tane away, thy labor will be lesse:With Muse upreard I meant to sing of armes,Choosing a subject fit for feirse alarmes:Both verses were alike till Love (men say)Began to smile and tooke one foote away.Rash boy, who gave thee power to change a line?We are the Muses prophets, none of thine.What if thy Mother take Dianas bowe,Shall Dian fanne when love begins to glowe?In wooddie groves ist meete that Ceres Raigne,And quiver bearing Dian till the plaine:Who'le set the faire treste sunne in battell ray,While Mars doth take the Aonian harpe to play?Great are thy kingdomes, over strong and large,Ambitious Imp, why seekst thou further charge?Are all things thine? the Muses Tempe thine?Then scarse can Phoebus say, this harpe is mine.When in this workes first verse I trod aloft,Love slackt my Muse, and made my numbers soft.I have no mistris, nor no favorit,Being fittest matter for a wanton wit,Thus I complaind, but Love unlockt his quiver,Tooke out the shaft, ordaind my hart to shiver:And bent his sinewy bow upon his knee,Saying, Poet heers a worke beseeming thee.Oh woe is me, he never shootes but hits,I burne, love in my idle bosome sits.Let my first verse be sixe, my last five feete,Fare well sterne warre, for blunter Poets meete.Elegian Muse, that warblest amorous laies,Girt my shine browe with sea banke mirtle praise.-- P. Ovidii Nasonis AmorumLiber PrimusELEGIA 1(Quemadmodum a Cupidine, pro bellis amores scribere coactus sit)”

“What makes my bed seem hard seeing it is soft?Or why slips downe the Coverlet so oft?Although the nights be long, I sleepe not tho,My sides are sore with tumbling to and fro.Were Love the cause, it's like I shoulde descry him,Or lies he close, and shoots where none can spie him?T'was so, he stroke me with a slender dart,Tis cruell love turmoyles my captive hart.Yeelding or striving doe we give him might,Lets yeeld, a burden easly borne is light.I saw a brandisht fire increase in strength,Which being not shakt, I saw it die at length.Yong oxen newly yokt are beaten more,Then oxen which have drawne the plow before.And rough jades mouths with stubburn bits are tome,But managde horses heads are lightly borne,Unwilling Lovers, love doth more torment,Then such as in their bondage feele content.Loe I confesse, I am thy captive I,And hold my conquered hands for thee to tie.What needes thou warre, I sue to thee for grace,With armes to conquer armlesse men is base,Yoke VenusDoves, put Mirtle on thy haire,Vulcan will give thee Chariots rich and faire.The people thee applauding thou shalte stand,Guiding the harmelesse Pigeons with thy hand.Yong men and women, shalt thou lead as thrall,So will thy triumph seeme magnificall.I lately cought, will have a new made wound,And captive like be manacled and bound.Good meaning, shame, and such as seeke loves wrackShall follow thee, their hands tied at their backe.Thee all shall feare and worship as a King,Jo, triumphing shall thy people sing.Smooth speeches, feare and rage shall by thee ride,Which troopes hath alwayes bin on Cupids side:Thou with these souldiers conquerest gods and men,Take these away, where is thy honor then?Thy mother shall from heaven applaud this show,And on their faces heapes of Roses strow.With beautie of thy wings, thy faire haire guilded,Ride golden Love in Chariots richly builded.Unlesse I erre, full many shalt thou burne,And give woundes infinite at everie turne.In spite of thee, forth will thy arrowes flie,A scorching flame burnes all the standers by.So having conquerd Inde, was Bacchus hew,Thee Pompous birds and him two tygres drew.Then seeing I grace thy show in following thee,Forbeare to hurt thy selfe in spoyling mee.Beholde thy kinsmans Caesars prosperous bandes,Who gardes the conquered with his conquering hands.-- ELEGIA 2 (Quodprimo Amore correptus, in triumphum duci se a Cupidine patiatur)”