Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sell eternity to get a toy? For one grape who will the vine destroy?
Much rain wears the marble.
One whom the music of his own vain tongue doth ravish like enchanting harmony.
Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more.
O heaven! were man, But constant, he were perfect.
Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth But that our soft conditions and our hearts Should well agree with our external parts?