The setting sun, and the music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in rememberance more than long things past.

You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense.

Some grief shows much of love, But much of grief shows still some want of wit.

As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.

Thy friendship makes us fresh.

Now is the winter of our discontent.

There is plenty of time to sleep in the grave