Ay, Much Is The Force Of Heaven-bred

In Winter's Tedious Nights Sit By The Fire With Good Old Folks, And Let Them Tell Thee Tales Of Woeful Ages, Long Ago Betid

This Act Is An Ancient Tale New Told; And, In The Last Repeating, Troublesome, Being Urged At A Time Unseasonable.

The Stroke Of Death Is As A Lover's Pinch, Which Hurts And Is Desired.

Love Is A Smoke Made With The Fume Of Sighs.

To Go To Bed After Midnight Is To Go To Bed Betimes