Time, whose millioned accidents creep in betwixt vows, and change decrees of kings, tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharpest intents, divert strong minds to the course of altering things.
O, Thou hast damnable iteration; and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint.
Nothing can seem foul to those who win.
Boldness be my friend.
Diseases desperate grown By desperate appliances are relieved, Or not at all.
Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.