Happy thou art not; for what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get; and what thou hast, forgettest.

These flowers are like the pleasures of the world.

Come, Lady, die to live.

I hold it cowardice To rest mistrustful where a noble heart Hath pawned an open hand in sign of love.

Let him smell his way to Dover!

But no perfection is so absolute, That some impurity doth not pollute.

My love is thine to teach; teach it but how, And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn. Any hard lesson that may do thee good.