The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow We are such stuff as dreams are made of.
Time ... thou ceaseless lackey to eternity.
Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies.
Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining.
How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green!
Free from gross passion or of mirth of anger constant spirit, not swerving with the blood, garnish'd and deck'd in modest compliment, not working with the eye without the ear, and but in purged judgement trusting neither? Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem.