O heaven! were man, But constant, he were perfect.
...lest too light winning make the prize light.
Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?
Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth But that our soft conditions and our hearts Should well agree with our external parts?
Nothing 'gainst Times scythe can make defence.
I take thee at thy word: Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized; Henceforth I never will be Romeo.