Keep time! How sour sweet music is when time is broke and no proportion kept! So is it in the music of men's lives. I wasted time and now doth time waste me.

Tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus.

How use doth breed a habit in a man.

Death-counterfeiting sleep.

My crown is called content, a crown that seldom kings enjoy.

The teeming Autumn big with rich increase, bearing the wanton burden of the prime like widowed wombs after their lords decease.

Now, infidel, I have you on the hip!