The quicksilver on a mirror may creep.

A seventy-eighth of 1560 is 20.

This Pucke ſeems but a dreaming dolt, / Still vvalking like a ragged Colt, / And oft out of a buſh doth bolt, / Of purpoſe to deceiue vs, / And leading vs makes vs to ſtray.

Every time I see you, it makes me happy.