You Peasant Swain! You Whoreson Malt-horse Drudge!

Love Runs Away From Those Chasing Her, And Those Who Run Away, She Throws Herself On His Neck.

And Where The Offense Is, Let The Great Axe Fall.

My Love Is Deep; The More I Give To Thee, The More I Have, Both Are Infinite.

Love's Gentle Spring Doth Always Fresh Remain.

O Gentlemen, The Time Of Life Is Short! To Spend That Shortness Basely Were Too Long, If Life Did Ride Upon A Dial's Point, Still Ending At The Arrival Of An Hour.