“Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,  So do our minutes hasten to their end;  Each changing place with that which goes before,  In sequent toil all forwards do contend.  Nativity, once in the main of light,  Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,  Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,  And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.  Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth  And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,  Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,  And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:    And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand.    Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.”

“Yet do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,My love shall in my verse ever live young”

“Ought we not to look upon our own history as being at least as full of God, as full of His goodness and of His truth, as much a proof of His faithfulness and veracity, as the lives of any of the saints who have gone before? We do our Lord an injustice when we suppose that He wrought all His mighty acts, and showed Himself strong for those in the early time, but doth not perform wonders or lay bare His arm for the saints who are now upon the earth.”

“It doth make a man better,' quoth Robin Hood, 'to bear of those noble men so long ago. When one doth list to such tales, his soul doth say, 'put by thy poor little likings and seek to do likewise.' Truly, one may not do as nobly one's self, but in the striving one is better...”

“I wasted time, and now doth time waste me; For now hath time made me his numbering clock: My thoughts are minutes; and with sighs they jar Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch, Whereto my finger, like a dial's point, Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears. Now sir, the sound that tells what hour it is Are clamorous groans, which strike upon my heart, Which is the bell: so sighs and tears and groans Show minutes, times, and hours.”

“O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mockThe meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss,Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger:But O, what damnèd minutes tells he o'erWho dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves!”