Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; But then begins a journey in my head To work my mind, when body's work's expir'd: For then my thoughts-from far where I abide- Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, Looking on darkness which the blind do see: Save that my soul's imaginary sight Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, Makes black night beauteous and her old face new. Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, For thee, and for myself no quiet find.

Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so; And, being done, thus Wall away doth go.

In delay there lies no plenty.

For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears.

The old folk, time's doting chronicles.

My stars shine darkly over me

Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.