O the world is but a word; were it all yours to give it in a breath, how quickly were it gone!

Nay, do not think I flatter. For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revenue hast but thy good spirits To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flattered?

Who is so firm that can't be seduced?

Love is like a child, That longs for everything it can come by

If she be not honest, chaste, and true, there's no man happy.

These times of woe afford no time to woo.

The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair: The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair; A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath; But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.