Every thing that grows / Holds in perfection but a little moment.
A woman moved is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty.
What the great ones do, the less will prattle of
Our wills and fates do so contrary run.
World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee/ Life would not yield to age.
Company, villainous company, hath been the spoil of me.