Now the melancholy of God protect thee, and the tailor make thy doublet of changable taffata, for thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be everything, and their intent everywhere, for that's it, that always makes a good voyage of nothing.

This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet

To pore upon a book, to seek the light of truth.

I bear a charmed life.

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.

Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do.

Tis in my memory lock'd, And you yourself shall keep the key of it.