Time ... thou ceaseless lackey to eternity.
On pain of death, no person be so bold.
Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer; But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.
He makes a July's day short as December.
Fill all thy bones with aches.
When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.