Keep time! How sour sweet music is when time is broke and no proportion kept! So is it in the music of men's lives. I wasted time and now doth time waste me.

Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

It is not nor it cannot come to good.

A hit a very palpable hit.

Your face is a book where men may read strange matters.

Now the melancholy of God protect thee, and the tailor make thy doublet of changable taffata, for thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be everything, and their intent everywhere, for that's it, that always makes a good voyage of nothing.

Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.