For grief is crowned with consolation.

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.

All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh, oh, oh!

My affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.

They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad

Shall I compare thee to a summer day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate... When in eternal lines to time thou growst So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us; His dew falls everywhere.