The whirligig of time brings in his revenges.

I shall show the cinders of my spirits Through the ashes of my chance.

From women's eyes this doctrine I derive: They sparkle still the right Promethean fire; They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain and nourish all the world.

Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.

Blest are those Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled, That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger To sound what stop she please.

They do not love that do not show their love. The course of true love never did run smooth. Love is a familiar. Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love.

Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie.