I have lived long enough. My way of life is to fall into the sere, the yellow leaf, and that which should accompany old age, as honor, love, obedience, troops of friends I must not look to have.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot; Follow your spirit: and upon this charge, Cry — God for Harry! England and Saint George!

My crown is called content, a crown that seldom kings enjoy.

No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change.

Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, to love that well which thou must leave ere long

He that is strucken blind can not forget the precious treasure of his eyesight lost.