These are the forgeries of jealousy; And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.

A very little thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience.

How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green!

A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!

Beauty lives with kindness.

Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.

I pray you bear me henceforth from the noise and rumour of the field, where I may think the remnant of my thoughts in peace, and part of this body and my soul with contemplation and devout desires.