Things won are done, joy's soul lies in the doing.

My hands are of your color, but I shame to wear a heart so white.

Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just, And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.

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

Thou weedy elf-skinned canker-blossom!

Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colored taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?