Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear
Love will not be spurred to what it loathes
For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.
Full many a glorious morn I have seen Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks.
Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends.