When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men; for thus sings he, Cuckoo; Cuckoo, cuckoo; O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear.

In delay there lies no plenty.

The head is not more native to the heart.

Downy sleep, death's counterfeit.

A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent--sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.

For honesty coupled to beauty, is to have honey a sauce to sugar.

I profess not talking: only this, Let each man do his best.