I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man.
When great leaves fall, the winter is at hand.
O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, that he hath turn'd a heaven unto hell
Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel.
How quickly nature falls into revolt When gold becomes her object! For this the foolish over-careful fathers Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with care, Their bones with industry.
Where hateful Death put on his ugliest mask.