Where shame is, there is also fear.
Take heed lest passion sway Thy judgement to do aught, which else free will Would not admit.
Time is the subtle thief of youth.
Temper justice with mercy.
What needs my Shakespeare for his honour'd bones,- The labour of an age in piled stones? Or that his hallow'd relics should be hid Under a star-y-pointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?
Ere the blabbing eastern scout, The nice morn, on th' Indian steep From her cabin'd loop-hole peep.