“For grammar it [poetry] might have, but it needs it not; being so easy in itself, and so void of those cumbersome differences of cases, genders, moods, and tenses, which, I think, was a piece of the Tower of Babylon's curse, that a man shoult be put to school to learn his mother-tongue.”

“If you have so earth-creeping a mind that it cannot lift itself up to look to the sky of poetry...thus much curse I must send you, in the behalf of all poets, that while you live, you live in love, and never get favour for lacking skill of a sonnet; and, when you die, your memory die from the earth for want of an epitaph.”

“My true-love hath my heart and I have his,By just exchange one for the other given:I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;There never was a bargain better driven.His heart in me keeps me and him in one;My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:He loves my heart, for once it was his own;I cherish his because in me it bides.His heart his wound received from my sight;My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;For as from me on him his hurt did light,So still, methought, in me his hurt did smart:Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss,My true-love hath my heart and I have his.”

“So, then, the best of the historian is subject to the poet; for whatsoever action or faction, whatsoever counsel, policy, or war-stratagem the historian is bound to recite, that may the poet, if he list, with his imitation make his own, beautifying it both for further teaching and more delighting, as it pleaseth him; having all, from Dante’s Heaven to his Hell, under the authority of his pen.”

“...think I none so simple would say that Aesop lied in the tales of his beasts: for who thinks that Aesop writ it for actually true were well worthy to have his name chronicled among the beasts he writeth of.”

“I now have learn’d Love right, and learn’d even so,As who by being poisoned doth poison know.”

“Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,That she (dear she) might take some pleasure of my pain;Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know;Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain;I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain;Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flowSome fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburnt brain.But words came halting forth, wanting invention's stay;Invention, nature's child, fled step-dame study's blows;And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way.Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,'Fool,' said my muse to me; 'look in thy heart, and write.”