For night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast, And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger; At whose approach ghosts wandring here and there Troop home to church-yards.... For fear lest day should look their shames upon, They willfully exile themselves from light, And must for aye consort with black brow'd night.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. -Sonnet 73

She will die if you love her not, And she will die ere she might make her love known

Ay, Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy.

Give thy thoughts no tongue.

You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will more willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life.

The weakest kind of fruit drops earliest to the ground.