We That Are True Lovers Run Into

As You Are Old And Reverend, You Should Be Wise.

Our Thoughts Are Ours, Their Ends None Of Our Own

The Crow Doth Sing As Sweetly As The Lark When Neither Is Attended; And I Think The Nightingale, If She Should Sing By Day When Every Goose Is Cackling, Would Be Thought No Better A Musician Than The Wren. How Many Thing By Season Seasoned Are To Their Right Praise And True Perfection!

We Are Not The First Who With Best Meaning Have Incurred The Worst

But O, How Bitter A Thing It Is To Look Into Happiness Through Another Man's Eyes.