Thomas Lodge

The smallest hair hath his shadow.

Giving me the fico with his thumb in his mouth.

He will not eat his dinner before he hath looked in his almanack, nor pare his nails while Monday, to be fortunate in his love.

My shirt is near me, but my skin is nearest.

Devils are not so black as they be painted, ... nor women so wayward as they seem.

Wherethrough justice is made a nose of wax warmed.

I was in a brown study.

The smith and the devil hath a dry tooth in his head.

Not worth a horse of thine own this seven year.

Nothing liked, where nothing wanted.

Love guards the roses of thy lips And flies about them like a bee.

Aliena...said the wedding was not worth a pin, unless there were some cheer.

Well, sir, if your market may be made no where else, home again, for your mart is at the fairest.

Your nose bewrays what porridge you love.

Love lurks as soon about a sheepcote as a palace.

Aliena...spied where the hare was by the hounds, and could see day at a little hole.

There is no sting to the worm of conscience.

I have a longing tooth...that makes me cry.

First time shall stay his stayless race, And Winter bless his brows with corn, And snow bemoisten July’s face, And winter spring, and summer mourn, Before my pen by help of fame Cease to recite thy sacred name.

With orient pearl, with ruby red, With marble white, with sapphire blue, Her body every way is fed, Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view.

Her neck is like a stately tower, Where Love himself imprison'd lies.

Like to the clear in highest sphere Where all imperial glory shines, Of selfsame colour is her hair, Whether unfolded or in twines: Heigh, ho, fair Rosalynde!

Love in my bosom like a bee Doth suck his sweet.

As the cat watcheth the play of the mouse.