Then is it sin to rush into the secret house of death. Ere death dare come to us?

That affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence.

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, than women's are.

If fortune torments me, hope contents me.

He's truly valiant that can wisely suffer The worst that man can breathe, and make his wrongs His outsides, to wear them like his raiment, carelessly, And ne'er prefer his injuries to his heart, To bring it into danger.

And then he drew a dial from his poke, And looking with lack-lustre eye, Says very wisely, 'It is ten o'clock: Thus we may see', Quoth he, 'how the world wags: 'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, And after one hour more 'twill be eleven; And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe, And then from hour to hour we rot and rot.

Passion makes the will lord of the reason.