I am wrapped in dismal thinking.

Too early seen unknown, and known too late!

See where she comes apparelled like the spring.

Never; he will not: Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety: other women cloy The appetites they feed: but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies.

As many arrows, loosed several ways, come to one mark...so many a thousand actions, once afoot, end in one purpose.

There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; There with fantastic garlands did she come Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them: There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook.

Thou lump of foul deformity!