If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!

Here is a rural fellow that will not be denied your Highness' presence: he brings you figs.

Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens to the which our wills are gardeners.

Passion lends them power, time means to meet, tempering extremities with extremes sweet.

Discuss unto me: art thou officer, Or art thou base, common, and popular?

When holy and devout religious men are at their beads, 'tis hard to draw them thence; so sweet is zealous contemplation.

The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men; the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.