If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'

Let him smell his way to Dover!

Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.

For this, be sure, tonight thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up. Urchins Shall forth at vast of night that they may work All exercise on thee. Thou shalt be pinched As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made 'em.

Thou hast the most unsavoury similes.

Scratching could not make it worse, an't were such a face as yours were.

These blessed candles of the night.