Nature Her Custom Holds, Let Shame Say

Time's The King Of Men; He's Both Their Parent, And He Is Their Grave, And Gives Them What He Will, Not What They Crave.

Many Can Brook The Weather That Love Not The Wind.

Why, What Should Be The Fear? I Do Not Set My Life At A Pin's Fee.

Conceit, More Rich In Matter Than In Words, Brags Of His Substance, Not Of Ornament: They Are But Beggars That Can Count Their Worth; But My True Love Is Grown To Such Excess, I Cannot Sum Up Half My Sum Of Wealth.

Good Night, Good Night! Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow, That I Shall Say Good Night Till It Be Morrow.