The wine-cup is the little silver well,
Where truth, if truth there be
Doth dwell.

“The stroke of death is as a lover's pinchWhich hurts and is desired.”

“His jest shall savour but a shallow wit, when thousands more weep than did laug…”

“Come, come, I'll go burn some sack. 'Tis too late to go to bed now. Come, knigh…”

“Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; Where little fears grow grea…”