Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry, stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons peas; And utters it again when God doth please: He is wit's pedler; and retails his wares.

Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.

I am afeard there are few die well that die in battle, for how can they charitably dispose of anything when blood is their argument?

He that commends me to mine own content Commends me to the thing I cannot get. I to the world am like a drop of water That in the ocean seeks another drop, Who, falling there to find his fellow forth, Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself: So I, to find a mother and a brother, In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself.

Have you not love enough to bear with me, when that rash humor which my mother gave me makes me forgetful.

And she's fair I love.