Death lies on her like an untimely frost.

An envious fever of pale and bloodless emulation.

The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness, And in the taste confounds the appetite: Therefore love moderately— long love doth so.

Tis safter to be that which we destroy Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.

A great cause of the night is lack of the sun.

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

God defend me from that Welsh fairy, Lest he transform me to a piece of cheese!