My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun

Let us not burden our remembrances with a heaviness that's gone.

O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!

In sooth I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me, you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn.

If you can look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak then unto me.

Are you up to your destiny?

O, let my books be then the eloquence and dumb presages of my speaking breast.