Here's flowers for you; Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age.

And I will make it felony to drink small beer.

Beauty itself doth of itself persuade the eyes of men without an orator.

The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, Burnt on the water.

Men from children nothing differ.

Death where is thy sting? Love, where is thy glory?

I am that merry wanderer of the night.