“No deeper wrinkles yet?Hath sorrow struckSo many blows upon this face of mineAnd made no deeper wounds?”

“I'll read enoughWhen I do see the very book indeedWhere all my sins are writ, and that's myself.Give me that glass and therein will I read.No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struckSo many blows upon this face of mineAnd made no deeper wounds?O flattering glass,Like to my followers in prosperityThou dost beguile me!”

“Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.”

“Each substance of grief hath twenty shadows, which shows like grief itself, but is not so; or sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears, divides one thing entire to many objects: like perspectives which, rightly gaz'd upon, show nothing but confusion:”

“O my love, my wife!Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breathHath had no power yet upon thy beauty.”

“Your cause of sorrow must not be measured by his worth, for then it hath no end.”

“Confusion now hath made his masterpiece.”