Each Must In Virtue Strive For To

Our Present Tears Here, Not Our Present Laughter Are But The Handsells Of Our Joys Hereafter.

Give Me A Kiss, And To That Kiss A Score: Then To That Twenty, Add A Hundred More.

Roses At First Were White, Till Thy Co'd Not Agree, Whether My Sapho's Breast, Or They More White Sho'd Be.

Tears Are The Noble Language Of The Eye.

A Sweet Disorder In The Dress Kindles In Clothes A Wantonness A Lawn About The Shoulders Thrown Into A Fine Distraction.