I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness, And from that full meridian of my glory I haste now to my setting.

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away.

It easeth some, though none it ever cured, to think their dolour others have endured.

That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.

Melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.

To be direct and honest is not safe.