Good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.

A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us; His dew falls everywhere.

Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.

I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he loves me.

This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet

What can be happier than for a man, conscious of virtuous acts, and content with liberty, to despise all human affairs?

Let each man do his best.