“O time, thou must untangle this, not I.It is too hard a knot for me t'untie.”

“O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last,And careful hours with Time's deformed handHave written strange defeatures in my face.But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?”

“O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, / That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!”

“That time of year thou mayst in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold,Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.In me thou seest the twilight of such dayAs after sunset fadeth in the west,Which by and by black night doth take away,Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.In me thou see'st the glowing of such fireThat on the ashes of his youth doth lie,As the death-bed whereon it must expireConsumed with that which it was nourish'd by.This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,To love that well which thou must leave ere long.”

“thou art the best o' the cut-throats”

“O thou dissembling cub! what wilt thou beWhen time hath sow'd a grizzle on thy case?Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow,That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow?Farewell, and take her; but direct thy feetWhere thou and I henceforth may never meet.”

“O shut the door! and when thou hast done so,Come weep with me; past hope, past cure, past help!”