When beggars die, there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.

But she makes hungry Where she most satisfies.

Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the world but I, and I am sunburnt; I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband!

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings.

For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy

That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away.

Too much to know is to know naught but fame.