He's loved of the distracted multitude, who like not in their judgement, but their eyes.

Never, never, never, never, never! Pray you, undo this button.

They love least that let men know their loves.

The sense of death is most in apprehension, And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn.

Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.

But whate'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time; If you have ever looked on better days, If ever been where bells knoll'd to church, If ever sat at any good man's feast, If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear, And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied, Let gentleness my strong enforcement be. . . .