The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.
Bid me run, and I will strive with things impossible.
There is a tide in the affairs of men
By medicine life may be prolonged, yet death will seize the doctor too.
To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I ey'd, Such seems your beauty still.
Sin will pluck on sin.