I humbly do beseech of your pardon, For too much loving you
Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun, and with him rise weeping.
Life's uncertain voyage.
The hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.
The quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself
Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?