You will never age for me, nor fade, nor die.
Good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.
...and then, in dreaming, / The clouds methought would open and show riches / Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked / I cried to dream again.
Do not plunge thyself too far in anger.
Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast.
Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light.