Haste is needful in a desperate case.

When holy and devout religious men are at their beads, 'tis hard to draw them thence; so sweet is zealous contemplation.

Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.

Greatness knows itself.

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

Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer, whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow

We are ready to try our fortunes to the last man.