I will not trust you, I, Nor longer stay in your curst company. Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray, My legs are longer though, to run away.

Beauty's a doubtful good, a glass, a flower, Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour; And beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.

Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping?

Within the book and volume of thy brain.

Cupid is a knavish lad, Thus to make poor females mad.

If they love they know not why, they hate upon no better ground, they hate upon no better a ground

Where the bee sucks, there suck I In the cow-slip's bell i lie There I couch when owls do cry