For death remembered should be like a mirror, Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error.
Honour travels in a strait so narrow Where one but goes abreast.
Every man has business and desire, Such as it is.
Thus weary of the world, away she hies, And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid Their mistress mounted through the empty skies In her light chariot quickly is convey'd; Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen Means to immure herself and not be seen.
A man should be what he seems.
I have a bone to pick with Fate