How much shall I be changed, before I am changed!

And new Philosophy calls all in doubt, the element of fire is quite put out; the Sun is lost, and the earth, and no mans wit can well direct him where to look for it.

Eternity is not an everlasting flux of time, but time is as a short parenthesis in a long period.

We can die by it, if not live by love, And if unfit for tombs and hearse Our legend be, it will be fit for verse; And if no peace of chronicle we prove, We'll build in sonnet pretty rooms; As well a well wrought urne becomes The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs.

For I am every dead thing In whom love wrought new alchemy For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness He ruined me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not.

Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.

There is hook in every benefit, that sticks in his jaws that takes that benefit, and draws him whither the benefactor will.