And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!

'Twas merry when You wagered on your angling, when your diver Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he With fervency drew up.

Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror

My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten.

Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.

Bounty, being free itself, thinks all others so.

Sweetest nut hath sourest rind.