I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true.
He receives comfort like cold porridge.
Celebrity is never more admired than by the negligent.
Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.
This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it.
A very ancient and fish-like smell.