No evil lost is wailed when it is gone.

Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lender's books, and defy the foul fiend.

Awake, dear heart, awake. Thou hast slept well. Awake.

Ay me! sad hours seem long.

There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; There with fantastic garlands did she come Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them: There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook.

A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers.

Is it possible that love should of a sudden take such a hold?