To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on.

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

'Tis better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.

Ingratitude is monstrous.

My falcon now is sharp and passing empty, and till she stoop she must not be full-gorged, for then she never looks upon her lure.

Oh, how this spring of love resembleth, The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all beauty of the Sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away

Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze by the sweet power of music.