“O happy, golden age! Not for that rivers ran With streams of milk, and honey dropped from trees.”

Lost is the time that you don’t spend for love.

Grave was the man in years, in looks, in word, his locks were grey, yet was his courage green.

Perhaps if only once you did enjoy The thousandth part of all the happiness A heart beloved enjoys, returning love, Repentant, you would surely sighing say, “All time is truly lost and gone Which is not spent in serving love.”

A friend giveth sympathy in trouble.

A fool is he that comes to preach or prate, When men with swords their right and wrong debate.

It is the fortunate who should extol fortune.

Not for no cold did freeze, Nor any cloud beguile Th’eternal flowering spring

They make their fortune who are stout and wise, Wit rules the heavens, discretion guides the skies.

True love cannot be found where it does not exist, nor can it be denied where it does.

None merits the name of Creator but God and the poet.

O subtle love! a thousand wiles thou hast, by humble suit, by service, or by hire, to win a maiden’s hold,–a thing soon done, for nature framed all women to be won.

Then amongst flowers and springs, Making delightful sport, Sat lovers without conflict, without flame

He, full of bashfulness and truth, loved much, hoped little, and desired naught.

Virtue’s guard is labor; ease, her sleep.

The day of fortune is like a harvest day, We must be busy when the corn is ripe.

Love is when he gives you a piece of your soul, that you never knew was missing.

Yes. Yes, when we live our life like 1950s detective films. I often go to my fridge, “Hullo, we’re out of milk. I say mother, where’s the milk?”

I don’t tan on my upper thighs, so when I first wore those [ cut-off jean short shorts] I look like I was walking on two cans of milk.

Instead of passing blithely over into that Promised Land, flowing almost literally with milk and honey, it may be our destiny to wander a full 40 years or more in the wilderness of doubt and divided sentiments.

Oh, you can milk just about anything with nipples.

My great grandma always told me to drink a lot of milk because it’s good for the skin.

Homogeneity is much to be admired – in milk, for instance – but not for parties.

Nobody wants to buy sour milk.

Your lips, beloved, are like a honeycomb: honey and milk are under the tongue. And the smell of your clothes is like the smell of my home.