The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.

Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth But that our soft conditions and our hearts Should well agree with our external parts?

'By heaven, that thou art fair, is most infallible true, that thou art beauteous truth itself, that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal.

They are sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing.

There's many a man hath more hair than wit.

I count myself in nothing else so happy as in a soul remembering my good Friends

She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.