Like madness, is the glory of this life.

The arms are fair, When the intent of bearing them is just.

Great griefs medicine the less.

Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered!

O, call back yesterday, bid time return

What win I, if I gain the thing I seek? A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy. Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sells eternity to get a toy? For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy? Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?

All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.