Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.

Let him smell his way to Dover!

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.

The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.

Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.

So far be distant; and good night, sweet friend: thy love ne'er alter, till they sweet life end

Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.