Then Happy I That Love And Am

But It Is A Melancholy Of Mine Own, Compounded Of Many Simples, Extracted From Many Objects, And Indeed The Sundry Contemplation Of My Travels, Which, By Often Rumination, Wraps Me In The Most Humorous Sadness.

What A Pretty Thing Man Is When He Goes In His Doublet And Hose And Leaves Off His Wit!

O, What A Goodly Outside Falsehood Hath!

The Setting Sun, And The Music At The Close, As The Last Taste Of Sweets, Is Sweetest Last, Writ In Rememberance More Than Long Things Past.

Miracles Are Ceased; And Therefore We Must Needs Admit The Means, How Things Are Perfected.