For this relief much thanks. 'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.

And since you know you cannot see yourself, so well as by reflection, I, your glass, will modestly discover to yourself, that of yourself which you yet know not of.

Love reasons without reason.

Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.

I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.

Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves, where manners ne'er were preached.

A table-full of welcome!