When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.
Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry, stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
Of all the flowers, me thinks a rose is best.
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman.
My age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly.
To sue to live, I find I seek to die; And, seeking death, find life: let it come on.