For I am proverbed with a grandsire phrase.

The blood of youth burns not with such excess as gravity's revolt to wantonness.

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; But then begins a journey in my head To work my mind, when body's work's expir'd: For then my thoughts-from far where I abide- Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, Looking on darkness which the blind do see: Save that my soul's imaginary sight Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, Makes black night beauteous and her old face new. Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, For thee, and for myself no quiet find.

Conscience is but a word that cowards use, devised at first to keep the strong in awe

My business was great, and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy.

Let no such man be trusted.

My age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly.