Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust.

So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep. But they are creul tears. This sorrow's heavenly; it strikes where it doth love.

The rest, is silence.

And therefore, — since I cannot prove a lover, To entertain these fair well-spoken days, — I am determined to prove a villain, And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

The worm is not to be trusted.

Barnes are blessings.

There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.