There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; There with fantastic garlands did she come Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them: There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook.

The latter end of a fray, and the beginning of a feast, Fits a dull fighter, and a keen guest.

But love is blind and lovers cannot see

Friendly counsel cuts off many foes.

Be still prepared for death: and death or life shall thereby be the sweeter.

My heart suspects more than mine eye can see.

I fill up a place, which may be better... when I have made it empty.