You shall more command with years than with your weapons.
O, how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.
Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust.
Sigh no more ladies, sigh no more, men were deceivers ever
What a fool honesty is.
No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.