What showers arise, blown with the windy tempest of my heart

Care is no cure, but rather corrosive, For things that are not to be remedied.

No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth

We do pray for mercy, and that same prayer doth teach us all to render the deeds of mercy.

A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent--sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.

And therefore, — since I cannot prove a lover, To entertain these fair well-spoken days, — I am determined to prove a villain, And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.