You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face.

Woe to that land that's governed by a child.

I always thought it was both impious and unnatural that such immanity and bloody strife should reign among professors of one faith.

That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.

The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair: The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair; A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath; But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.

Some grief shows much of love, But much of grief shows still some want of wit.

The teeming Autumn big with rich increase, bearing the wanton burden of the prime like widowed wombs after their lords decease.