Love in my bosom like a bee

Words are like to arrows, which are easily shot out, but hardly got in again.

Yea, when the Grecian Calends come (quoth I).

Pluck the fruit and taste the pleasure, Youthful lordings, of delight; Whilst occasion gives you seizure, Feed your fancies and your sight: After death, when you are gone, Joy and pleasure is there none.

The earth, late choked with showers, Is how arrayed in green; Her bosom springs with flowers, The air dissolves her teen.

Buy cheap, sell dear.

A good man is never less alone than when alone, as Themistocles said.