Quotes from George Wither

Without the door let sorrow lie, And if for cold it hap to die, We'll bury 't in a Christmas pie, And evermore be merry.

Though I am young, I scorn to flitOn the wings of borrowed wit.

Shall I wasting in despairDie because a woman's fair?Or make pale my cheeks with care'Cause another's rosy are?Be she fairer than the day,Or the flow'ry meads in May,If she be not so to me,What care I how fair she be?

'Twas I that beat the bush,The bird to others flew.