Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew; Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.

Report of fashions in proud Italy Whose manners still our tardy-apish nation Limps after in base imitation

Hopeless and helpless doth Egeon wend, But to procrastinate his liveless end.

Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.

It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood.

Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Here's three on's are sophisticated. Thou art the thing itself; unaccommodated man is no more than such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art.