Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.

O world, world! thus is the poor agent despised. O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavor be so loved, and the performance so loathed?

There is not one wise man in twenty that will praise himself.

where civil blood makes civil hands unclean

But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.

The summer's flower is to the summer sweet Though to itself it only live and die

So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.