Fools may our scorn, not envy, raise. For envy is a kind of praise.

Envy's a sharper spur than pay: No author ever spar'd a brother; Wits are gamecocks to one another.

My lodging is on the cold ground, And hard, very hard, is my fare, But that which grieves me more Is the coldness of my dear.

The sun was set; the night came on apace, And falling dews bewet around the place; The bat takes airy rounds on leathern wings, And the hoarse owl his woeful dirges sings.

Youth's the season made for joys, Love is then our duty.

I must have women - there is nothing unbends the mind like them.

But his kiss was so sweet, and so closely he pressed, that I languished and pined till I granted the rest.