And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror

So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

Wisely, I say, I am a bachelor.

My heart is ever at your service.

The past is prologue.

We must be gentle now we are gentlemen.