Tis not the many oaths that make the truth; But the plain single vow, that is vow'd true.

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

I will be treble-sinewed, hearted, breathed, And fight maliciously; for when mine hours Were nice and lucky, men did ransom lives Of me for jests; but now I'll set my teeth And send to darkness all that stop me.

These flowers are like the pleasures of the world.

A nun of winter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them.

Like madness, is the glory of this life.

There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.