I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it; knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence.

Fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to herrings, the husband's the bigger.

Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.

No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine And made no deeper wounds?

There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.

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

How many things by season seasoned are To their right praise and true perfection!