The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations Preface

It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make men better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
A lily of a day
Is fairer far, in May,
Although it fall and die that night;
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauty see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.
‘To the Immortal Memory...of...Sir Lucius Carey and Sir H. Morison’ (1640)
Soul of the Age!
The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!
My Shakespeare...
Thou art a monument, without a tomb,
And art alive still while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read, and praise to give.
‘To the Memory of My Beloved, The Author, Mr William Shakespeare’ (1623)
For if I thought my judgement were of years
I should commit thee surely with thy peers:
And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe’s mighty line.
‘To the Memory of My Beloved, The Author, Mr William Shakespeare’ (1623)
And though thou hadst small Latin, and less Greek.
‘To the Memory of My Beloved, The Author, Mr William Shakespeare’ (1623)
To hear thy buskin tread
And shake a stage; or, when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone, for the comparison
Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
‘To the Memory of My Beloved, The Author, Mr William Shakespeare’ (1623)
He was not of an age, but for all time!
‘To the Memory of My Beloved, The Author, Mr William Shakespeare’ (1623)
Sweet Swan of Avon! What a sight it were
To see thee in our waters yet appear,
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames
That so did take Eliza, and our James!
‘To the Memory of My Beloved, The Author, Mr William Shakespeare’ (1623)
Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show
Of touch or marble, nor canst boast a row