That soul that can reflect upon itself, consider itself, is more than so.

God himself took a day to rest in, and a good man's grave is his Sabbath.

Festive alcohol sometimes leads to an excess of honesty.

Dull sublunary lovers' love (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove Those things which elemented it.

Nature's lay idiot, I taught thee to love.

That thou remember them, some claim as debt; I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.

Busy old fool, unruly sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains, call on us? Must to thy motions lovers'seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late schoolboys, and sour prentices, Go tell court-huntsmen that the King will ride, Call countryants to harvest offices; Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.