Beauty's a doubtful good, a glass, a flower, Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour; And beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.

Let me not live, after my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff of younger spirits.

T'is true: there's magic in the web of it.

And send him many years of sunshine days!

Hung be the heavens with black! Yield, day, to night!

I had rather live with cheese and garlic in a windmill.

The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what he is and steal out of your company.