We go to gain a little patch of ground that hath in it no profit but the name.
What Time hath scanted men in hair, he hath given them in wit.
Never; he will not: Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety: other women cloy The appetites they feed: but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies.
I would fain die a dry death.
My heart suspects more than mine eye can see.
Swift as shadow, short as any dream