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.

If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.

Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough.

one pain is cured by another. catch some new infection in your eye and the poison of the old one would die.

Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs.

We bring forth weeds when our quick minds lie still.

I have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.