“The weight of this sad time we must obey,Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.The oldest hath borne most: we that are youngShall never see so much, nor live so long.”

“The oldest hath borne most; we that are youngShall never see so much, nor live so long.”

“Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust?And, live we how we can, yet die we must.”

“Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.”

“I know love is begun by time,And that I see, in passages of proof,Time qualifies the spark and fire of it.There lives within the very flame of loveA kind of wick or snuff that will abate it.And nothing is at a like goodness still.For goodness, growing to a pleurisy,Dies in his own too-much. That we would do,We should do when we would, for this “would” changesAnd hath abatements and delays as manyAs there are tongues, are hands, are accidents.And then this “should” is like a spendthrift sighThat hurts by easing.”

“A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry; But were we burdened with light weight of pain, As much or more we should ourselves complain.”

“For goodness, growing to a plurisy,Dies in his own too much: that we would doWe should do when we would; for this 'would' changesAnd hath abatements and delays as manyAs there are tongues,”