Which can say more than this rich praise, that you alone are you?

I am sure care's an enemy to life.

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

The let-alone lies not in your good will.

Sweet recreation barred, what doth ensue but moody and dull melancholy, kinsman to grim and comfortless despair.

Scarce can I speak, my choler is so great. Oh! I could hew up rocks, and fight with flint.

These flowers are like the pleasures of the world.