I am obnoxious to each carping tongue who says my hand a needle better fits.

Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, I here, though there, yet both but one.

I wish my Sun may never set, but burn.

Art can do much, but this maxim's most sure/A weak or wounded brain admits no cure.

Sweet words are like honey, a little may refresh, but too much gluts the stomach.

Let Greeks be Greeks, and women what they are.

I happy am, if well with you.