The fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost.

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.

What should we speak of When we are old as you? when we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December? how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse The freezing hours away?

God shall be my hope, my stay, my guide and lantern to my feet.

O that men's ears should be To counsel deaf but not to flattery!