Every inordinate cup is unbless'd, and the ingredient is a devil.

Love hath made thee a tame snake

Now I am past all comforts here, but prayer.

They do not abuse the king that flatter him. For flattery is the bellows blows up sin; The thing the which is flattered, but a spark To which that blast gives heat and stronger glowing.

So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh at gilded butterflies.

To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans; coy looks, with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth

Barnes are blessings.