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.

He is not worthy of the honey-comb, that shuns the hives because the bees have stings.

In right and service to their noble country.

Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies; Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies

For night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast, And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger; At whose approach ghosts wandring here and there Troop home to church-yards.... For fear lest day should look their shames upon, They willfully exile themselves from light, And must for aye consort with black brow'd night.

You Jig, you amble, and you lisp.

How much salt water thrown away in waste/ To season love, that of it doth not taste.