I will praise any man that will praise me.

O excellent! I love long life better than figs.

I'll go find a shadow, and sigh till he come" (Phebe)

Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry, stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

Spirits are not finely touched But to fine issues, nor Nature never lends The smallest scruple of her excellence But like a thrifty goddess she determines Herself the glory of a creditor,Both thanks and use.

The big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose, In piteous chase.

I never yet did hear, That the bruis'd heart was pierced through the ear