Time and the hour run through the roughest day.
The head is not more native to the heart.
The rest, is silence.
Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench; I love her ten times more than e'er I did: O, how I long to have some chat with her!
What power is it which mounts my love so high, that makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye
I'll go find a shadow, and sigh till he come" (Phebe)