What Time hath scanted men in hair, he hath given them in wit.

Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime by action dignified.

But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes.

With these shreds They vented their complainings, which being answered And a petition granted them, a strange one, To break the heart of generosity, And make bold power look pale, they threw their caps As they would hang them on the horns o' th' moon, Shouting their emulation.

The prize of all too precious you.

Sometimes, less is more.

But whate'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time; If you have ever looked on better days, If ever been where bells knoll'd to church, If ever sat at any good man's feast, If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear, And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied, Let gentleness my strong enforcement be. . . .