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.
Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.
He that will have a cake out of the wheat must tarry the grinding.
No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.
Sit by my side, and let the world slip: we shall ne'er be younger.
Your cause of sorrow must not be measured by his worth, for then it hath no end.