Every Why Hath A Wherefore.

At Christmas I No More Desire A Rose Than Wish A Snow In May's New-fangled Mirth; But Like Of Each Thing That In Season Grows.

I Had Rather Live With Cheese And Garlic In A Windmill.

Love, Whose Month Is Ever May, Spied A Blossom Passing Fair, Playing In The Wanton Air: Through The Velvet Leaves The Wind, All Unseen Can Passage Find; That The Lover, Sick To Death, Wish'd Himself The Heaven's Breath.

I Praise God For You, Sir: Your Reasons At Dinner Have Been Sharp And Sententious; Pleasant Without Scurrility, Witty Without Affectation, Audacious Without Impudency, Learned Without Opinion, And Strange With-out Heresy.

Tis Not A Year Or Two Shows Us A Man: They Are All But Stomachs, And We All But Food; They Eat Us Hungerly, And When They Are Full They Belch Us.