Things may serve long, but not serve ever.

Lawn as white as driven snow; Cyprus black as e'er was crow; Gloves as sweet as damask roses.

Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the furious winters' rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

As good luck would have it, comes in one Mistress Page, gives intelligence of Ford's approach, and in her invention, and Ford's wife's distraction, they conveyed me into a buck-basket.

One half of me is yours, the other half is yours, Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours, And so all yours.

Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.