Lawless are they that make their wills their law.

Prosperity's the very bond of love, Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together Affliction alters.

Verily, I swear, it is better to be lowly born, and range with humble livers in content, than to be perked up in a glistering grief, and wear a golden sorrow.

Absence from those we love is self from self - a deadly banishment.

Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.

Thus weary of the world, away she hies, And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid Their mistress mounted through the empty skies In her light chariot quickly is convey'd; Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen Means to immure herself and not be seen.

How wayward is this foolish love that, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse and presently, all humble, kiss the rod.