Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come.

I will be treble-sinewed, hearted, breathed, And fight maliciously; for when mine hours Were nice and lucky, men did ransom lives Of me for jests; but now I'll set my teeth And send to darkness all that stop me.

We will all laugh at gilded butterflies.

Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun, and with him rise weeping.

Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.

These cardinals trifle with me; I abhor; This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome.

. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest.