Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench; I love her ten times more than e'er I did: O, how I long to have some chat with her!

Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer; But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.

Things won are done, joy's soul lies in the doing.

His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise.

If it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul.

He that dies this year is quit for the next.

There is a tide in the affairs of men