The Sight Of Lovers Feedeth Those In

I'll Make My Heaven In A Lady's Lap

There's Not The Smallest Orb Which Thou Behold'st But In His Motion Like An Angel Sings.

To Be Furious, Is To Be Frighted Out Of Fear.

I Have Neither The Scholar's Melancholy, Which Is Emulation; Nor The Musician's, Which Is Fantastical; Nor The Courtier's, Which Is Proud; Not The Soldier's Which Is Ambitious; Nor The Lawyer's, Which Is Politic; Nor The Lady's, Which Is Nice; Nor The Lover's, Which Is All These: But It Is A Melancholy Of Mine Own, Compounded Of Many Simples, Extracted From Many Objects, And Indeed The Sundry Contemplation Of My Travels, Which, By Often Rumination, Wraps Me In A Most Humorous Sadness.

There Is Nothing Serious In Mortality