āThe prize of all too precious you.ā
āGet thee to a nunnery.ā
āWolves and bears, they say, casting their savagery aside, have done like offices of pity.ā
āWhat, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.ā
āI am not bound to please thee with my answer.ā
āAway, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!ā
āSweets grown common lose their dear delight.ā
āAnd this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.ā
āThe present eye praises the present object.ā