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. . . .

Woe, destruction, ruin, and decay; the worst is death and death will have his day.

We were not born to sue, but to command.

My brain more busy than the labouring spider Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.

Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

I and my bosom must debate awhile, and then I would no other company.