Time, whose millioned accidents creep in betwixt vows, and change decrees of kings, tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharpest intents, divert strong minds to the course of altering things.

A plague of sighing and grief! It blows a man up like a bladder.

All is well ended, if the suit be won.

All things that are, are with more spirit chased than enjoyed.

Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.

The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts and is desired.

What win I, if I gain the thing I seek? A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy. Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sells eternity to get a toy? For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy? Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?