Sweetest Nut Hath Sourest Rind.

If After Every Tempest Come Such Calms, May The Winds Blow Till They Have Waken'd Death!

Eternity Was In Our Lips And Eyes.

Thy Tongue Makes Welsh As Sweet As Ditties Highly Penn'd, Sung By A Fair Queen In A Summer's Bower, With Ravishing Division, To Her Lute.

When I Said I Would Die A Bachelor, I Did Not Think I Should Live Till I Were Married.

For My Part, If A Lie May Do Thee Grace, I'll Gild It With The Happiest Terms I Have.