A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it.

Take it in what sense thou wilt.

I and my bosom must debate awhile, and then I would no other company.

Yea from the table of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial fond records.

How is it that the clouds still hang on you?

Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.

But she makes hungry Where she most satisfies.