A ministering angel shall my sister be.

'Tis thought the king is dead; we will not stay. The bay trees in our country are all wither'd.

Every man has business and desire, Such as it is.

Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the furious winters' rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

I would there were no age between sixteen and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest; for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting

To show our simple skill, That is the true beginning of our end.

Silence is the perfectest herault of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.