No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.
Enjoyment always has a spoiling, otherwise it cannot be so.
At the round earth's imagined corners, blow your trumpets, angels.
The Psalms foretell what I, what any shall do and suffer and say.
All our life is but a going out to the place of execution, to death.
All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay.