Each present joy or sorrow seems the chief.
The time is out of joint.
But like of each thing that in season grows.
This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons peas; And utters it again when God doth please: He is wit's pedler; and retails his wares.
Pastime passing excellent, if it he husbanded with modesty.
Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!