I wasted time, and now doth time waste me; For now hath time made me his numbering clock: My thoughts are minutes; and with sighs they jar Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch, Whereto my finger, like a dial's point, Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears. Now sir, the sound that tells what hour it is Are clamorous goans, which strike upon my heart, Which is the bell: so sighs and tears and groans Show minutes, times, and hours.

He is the half part of a blessed man, Left to be finished by such as she; And she a fair divided excellence, Whose fullness of perfection lies in him.

Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.

If we are true to ourselves, we can not be false to anyone.

Confusion now hath made his masterpiece.

Conceit in weakest bodies works the strongest.

Misery makes sport to mock itself.