All pity choked with custom of fell deeds.

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper'd head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.

Time is the king of men.

Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench; I love her ten times more than e'er I did: O, how I long to have some chat with her!

Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.

Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell.

'Tis better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.