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I will make an end of my dinner--there's pippins and seese to come.

For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, Or as the heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive, So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me!

I fear it is too choleric a meat. How say you to a fat tripe finely broiled?

What say you to a piece of beef and mustard?

My cake is dough, but I'll in among the rest, Out of hope of all but my share of the feast.

Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour.

But that our feasts In every mess have folly, and the feeders Digest it with a custom, I should blush To see you so attired, swoon, I think, To show myself a glass.

The birds chaunt melody on every bush, The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun, The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind, And make a checkered shadow on the ground; Under their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit, And whilst the babbling echo mocks the hounds, Replying shrilly to the well-tuned horns, As if a double hunt were heard at once, Let us sit down and mark their yellowing noise; And after conflict such as was supposed The wand'ring prince and Dido once enjoyed, When with a happy storm they were surprised, And curtained with a counsel-keeping cave, We may, each wreathed in the other's arms, Our pastimes done, possess a golden slumber, Whiles hounds and horns and sweet melodious birds Be unto us as is a nurse's song Of lullaby to bring her babe asleep.

Have more than thou showest,Speak less than thou knowest.

All's well that ends well; still the fine's the crown. Whate'er the course, the end is the renown.

The end crowns all, And that old common arbitrator, Time, Will one day end it.

The general's disdained By him one step below, he by the next, The next by him beneath; so every step, Exampled by the first pace that is sick Of his superior, grows to an envious fever Of pale and bloodless emulation: And 'tis this fever that keeps Troy on foot, Not her own sinews.

Such men as he be never at heart's ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves, And therefore are they very dangerous.

My mind gave me, In seeking tales and informations Against this man, whose honesty the devil And his disciples only envy at, Ye blew the fire that burns ye: now have at ye!

We make ourselves fools to disport ourselves And spend our flatteries to drink those men Upon whose age we void it up again With poisonous spite and envy.

Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew, Thou mak'st thy knife keen; but no metal can-- No, not the hangman's axe--bear half the keenness Of thy sharp envy.

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou her maid art far more fair than she. Be not her maid, since she is envious. Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it. Cast it off.

So shall you hear Of carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts, Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters, Of deaths put on by cunning and forced cause, And, in this upshot, purposes mistook Fall'n on th' inventors' heads.

Ah, poor our sex! this fault in us I find, The error of our eye directs our mind. What error leads must error.

He wants nothing of a god but eternity and a heaven to throne in.