Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned.

I love you more than word can wield the matter, Dearer than eye-sight, space and liberty

This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons peas; And utters it again when God doth please: He is wit's pedler; and retails his wares.

Manhood is melted into courtesies, valor into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones, too.

A little water clears us of this deed.

Tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.