Happy is the bride that the sun shines on.
The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
Here a pretty Baby lies Sung asleep with Lullabies: Pray be silent, and not stirre The easie earth that covers her.
Fain would I kiss my Julia's dainty leg, Which is as white and hairless as an egg.
Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.
Tears are the noble language of eyes, and when true love of words is destitute. The eye by tears speak, while the tongue is mute.