Make the doors upon a woman’s wit and it will out at the casement. Shut that and ’twill out at the keyhole. Stop that, ’twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.
And this our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.
Wherever sorrow is, relief would be. If you do sorrow at my grief in love, By giving love your sorrow and my grief Were both extermined.
Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird’s throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither! Here shall he see no enemy But winter and rough weather.
Sweet are the uses of adversity; Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.