Have you not love enough to bear with me, when that rash humor which my mother gave me makes me forgetful.

The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.

Weariness can snore upon the flint when resting sloth finds the down pillow hard.

Cursed be he that moves my bones.

Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.

A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it.

But she makes hungry Where she most satisfies.