The hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.

O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last, And careful hours with Time's deformed hand Have written strange defeatures in my face. But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?

We that are true lovers run into strange capers.

Then was I as a tree whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night, a storm or robbery, call it what you will, shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, and left me bare to weather.

A great cause of the night is lack of the sun.

Look on beauty, and you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight.

The fewer men, the greater share of honor.