They are sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing.
When Death doth close his tender dying eyes.
Though Death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.
My business was great, and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy.
Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.
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.