Sit by my side, and let the world slip: we shall ne'er be younger.

Their manners are more gentle, kind, than of Our human generation you shall find.

Let still woman take An elder than herself: so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband's heart, For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner to be lost and warn, Than women's are.

Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.

The sudden hand of Death close up mine eye!

By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.

I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.