For he was likely, had he been put on, to have proved most royally.
A college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humor. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram?
The gloomy shade of death.
Nature's tears are reason's merriment.
I can express no kinder sign of love, than this kind kiss.
Thus weary of the world, away she hies, And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid Their mistress mounted through the empty skies In her light chariot quickly is convey'd; Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen Means to immure herself and not be seen.