Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered!

An honest tale speeds best being plainly told.

For it falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us While it was ours.

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices, That, if I then had waked after long sleep, Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open, and show riches Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked, I cried to dream again.

Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither. Ripeness is all.

Desperate times breed desperate measures

Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes see pathways to his will!