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

Unsubstantial Death is amorous.

Suffer love; a good epithet! I do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will.

As good luck would have it, comes in one Mistress Page, gives intelligence of Ford's approach, and in her invention, and Ford's wife's distraction, they conveyed me into a buck-basket.

In delay there lies no plenty.

Silence is the perfectest herault of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.

Blessings of your heart, you brew good ale.