Men judge by the complexion of the sky The state and inclination of the day.

Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.

Our enemies are our outward consciences.

I'll say she looks as clear as morning roses newly washed with dew.

So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.

To weep is to make less the depth of grief.

Were't not for laughing, I should pity him.