Tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation.

With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out

Tis in my memory lock'd, And you yourself shall keep the key of it.

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray you, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts. There's fennel for you, and columbines: — there 's rue for you; and here's some for me: — we may call it, herb of grace o'Sundays: — you may wear your rue with a difference. — There's a daisy: — I would give you some violets; but they withered all, when my father died: — They say, he made a good end.

In brief, sir, study what you most affect.

My age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly.

What the great ones do, the less will prattle of