She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.

Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek.

I, measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self, Pursued my humor not pursuing his, And gladly shunned who gladly fled from me.

Wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man regards it.

A flock of blessings light upon thy back

He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion.

Suit the action to the word, the word to the action.