What To Ourselves In Passion We Propose,

No, I Will Be The Pattern Of All Patience; I Will Say Nothing.

The World Is Grown So Bad, That Wrens Make Prey Where Eagles Dare Not Perch.

I Have Very Poor And Unhappy Brains For Drinking: I Could Well Wish Courtesy Would Invent Some Other Custom Of Entertainment.

We Were Not Born To Sue, But To Command.

When Daisies Pied And Violets Blue And Lady-smocks All Silver-white And Cuckoo-buds Of Yellow Hue Do Paint The Meadows With Delight, The Cuckoo Then, On Every Tree, Mocks Married Men; For Thus Sings He, Cuckoo; Cuckoo, Cuckoo; O, Word Of Fear, Unpleasing To A Married Ear.