Alas, how love can trifle with itself!
My stars shine darkly over me
What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.
To beguile the time, look like the time.
A woman moved is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty.
O England! Model to thy inward greatness, like little body with a might heart.