Tush! Fear not, my lord, we will not stand to prate; Talkers are no good doers: be assured We come to use our hands and not our tongues.
Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?
Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on his back.
Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.
Get thee glass eyes, and like a scurvy politician, seem to see the things thou dost not.
The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men; the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.