Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the furious winters' rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

The more pity, that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly.

I am a man more sinned against than sinning

Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth

What, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.

My friends were poor, but honest, so's my love.

No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.