My life, my joy, my food, my ail the world!

I dote on his very absence.

I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true.

Downy sleep, death's counterfeit.

Every man has a bag hanging before him, in which he puts his neighbour's faults, and another behind him in which he stows his own.

In jest, there is truth.

Glory is like a circle in the water, which never ceaseth to enlarge itself, till, by broad spreading, it disperse to naught.