I will kiss thy lips. Haply some poison yet doth hang on them.
Have more than thou showest, Speak less than thou knowest, Lend less than thou owest, Ride more than thou goest, Learn more than thou trowest, Set less than thou throwest.
Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, whiles night’s black agents to their preys do rouse.
From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive: They sparkle still the right Promethean fire; They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain, and nourish all the world.
And, as imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name.
You take my life when you do take the means whereby I live.
Winter’s not gone yet, if the wild-geese fly that way.
Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain.
When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.
When he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun.
What then? What rests? Try what repentance can. What can it not? Yet what can it when one can not repent? O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul, that struggling to be free art more engaged!
What man art thou, that, thus bescreened in night, so stumblest on my counsel?
