Joys season'd high, and tasting strong of guilt.

When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees

When men of infamy to grandeur soar, They light a torch to show their shame the more.

Not all the pride of beauty; Those eyes, that tell us what the sun is made of; Those lips, whose touch is to be bought with life; Those hills of driven snow, which seen are felt: All these possessed are nought, but as they are The proof, the substance of an inward passion, And the rich plunder of a taken heart.

We nothing know, but what is marvellous; Yet what is marvellous, we can't believe.

Procrastination is the thief of time: Year after year it steals, till all are fled.

Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom.