O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, / That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!

Prosperity's the very bond of love, Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together Affliction alters.

Live how we can, yet die we must.

A woman moved is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty.

Thus can the demigod Authority Make us pay down for our offense by weight The words of heaven; on whom it will, it will, On whom it will not, so: yet still 'tis just.

Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.

My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and thou are of one date; But when in thee time's furrows I behold, Then look I death my days should expiate.