Thus weary of the world, away she hies, And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid Their mistress mounted through the empty skies In her light chariot quickly is convey'd; Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen Means to immure herself and not be seen.

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

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.

What I have done is yours; what I have to do is yours; being part in all I have, devoted yours.

For many men that stumble at the threshold are well foretold that danger lurks within.

I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap

Were all the letters sun, I could not see one.