What's the newest grief? Each minute tunes a new one.

Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens to the which our wills are gardeners.

I hate the murderer, love him murdered.

Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight, Past reason hunted, and no sooner had Past reason hated

To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.

I wasted time, and now doth time waste me; For now hath time made me his numbering clock: My thoughts are minutes; and with sighs they jar Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch, Whereto my finger, like a dial's point, Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears. Now sir, the sound that tells what hour it is Are clamorous goans, which strike upon my heart, Which is the bell: so sighs and tears and groans Show minutes, times, and hours.

The time is out of joint : O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!