I would fain die a dry death.
Where souls do couch on flowers we'll hand in hand.
This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it.
She moves me not, or not removes at least affection's edge in me.
Like madness, is the glory of this life.
This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons peas; And utters it again when God doth please: He is wit's pedler; and retails his wares.