Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come

For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

My love admits no qualifying dross

I will make thee think thy swan a crow.

Sin will pluck on sin.

Here's flowers for you; Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age.

If love be blind, it best agrees with night