Every thing that grows / Holds in perfection but a little moment.

The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?

Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.

Tis time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss.

Let still woman take An elder than herself: so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband's heart, For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner to be lost and warn, Than women's are.

To some kind of men their graces serve them but as enemies.