He is winding the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike.
Can one desire too much of a good thing?
Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.
What else may hap, to time I will commit.
The iron tongue of Midnight hath told twelve lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall outstep the coming morn as much as we this night over-watch'd.
It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a lover.