The devil knew what he did when he made men politic; he crossed himself by it.
I love a ballad but even too well if it be doleful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed and sung lamentably.
God shall be my hope, my stay, my guide and lantern to my feet.
What's gone, and what's past help, Should be past grief.
We know what we are, but know not what we may be.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come.