It is lost at dice, what ancient honor won.

The setting sun, and the music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in rememberance more than long things past.

O polished perturbation! golden care! That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night.

So foul and fair a day I have not seen.

I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say - I love you

Romans, countrymen, and lovers, hear me for my cause, and be silent, that you may hear.

... the spring, the summer, The chilling autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world By their increase, now knows not which is which.