Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep.
Let me be boiled to death with melancholy.
He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May.
Happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending.
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
An old black ram is tupping your white ewe