'Tis brief, my lord...as woman's love.

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.

None can cure their harms by wailing them.

There's no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune.

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding they brav'ry in their rotten smoke?

Misery makes sport to mock itself.

We that are true lovers run into strange capers.