Things Are Often Spoke And

So Now I Have Confessed That He Is Thine, And I My Self Am Mortgaged To Thy Will, My Self I'll Forfeit, So That Other Mine, Thou Wilt Restore To Be My Comfort Still.

Where The Bee Sucks, There Suck I In The Cow-slip's Bell I Lie There I Couch When Owls Do Cry

So Many Hours Must I Take My Rest; So Many Hours Must I Contemplate.

Lord, Lord, How Subject We Old Men Are To This Vice Of Lying!

Brevity Is The Soul Of Wit.