Tis the times' plague, when madmen lead the blind.

Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust.

Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain, Which, with pain purchas'd, doth inherit pain.

He is white-livered and red-faced.

What light through yonder window breaks?

I must be cruel only to be kind; Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away.