I am wealthy in my friends.

Of all the flowers, me thinks a rose is best.

If our virtues did not go forth of us, it were all alike as if we had them not.

Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I; every man to his business.

There's rosemary and rue. These keep Seeming and savor all the winter long. Grace and remembrance be to you.

Help, master, help! here's a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man's right in the law; 'twill hardly come out.

I am not merry, but I do beguile the thing I am by seeming otherwise.