Thou frothy tickle-brained hedge-pig!
Tempt not a desperate man
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass but my madness speaks.
What is past is prologue.
We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. -Sonnet 73