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.

One half of me is yours, the other half is yours, Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours, And so all yours.

Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away.

World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee/ Life would not yield to age.

The tongues of dying men enforce attention like deep harmony.

That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.