If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottage princes' palaces.

Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more.

Keep time! How sour sweet music is when time is broke and no proportion kept! So is it in the music of men's lives. I wasted time and now doth time waste me.

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. And let my liver rather heat with wine, than my heart cool with mortifying groans.

The instruments of darkness tell us truths.

While we lie tumbling in the hay.

For death remembered should be like a mirror, Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error.