He that dies this year is quit for the next.

Say, thou art mine; and ever, My love, as it begins, shall so persevere

Thus play I in one person many people, And none contented: sometimes am I king; Then treasons make me wish myself a beggar, And so I am: then crushing penury Persuades me I was better when a king; Then am I king'd again: and by and by Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke, And straight am nothing: but whate'er I be, Nor I nor any man that but man is With nothing shall be pleased, till he be eased With being nothing.

Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine.

And teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night.

These violent delights have violent ends.

No, no, I am but shadow of myself: You are deceived, my substance is not here.