I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.

I see a man's life is a tedious one.

For grief is crowned with consolation.

Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie.

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.

There is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous men.

There's her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December.