The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.

The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.

There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.

Now I am past all comforts here, but prayer.

Beauty itself doth of itself persuade the eyes of men without an orator.

All things that are, are with more spirit chased than enjoyed.

I am not in the giving vein today.