“Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colored taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.”

“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.”

“Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.”

“Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines, And too often is his gold complexion dimm'd: And every fair from fair sometimes declines, By chance or natures changing course untrimm'd; By thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee.”

“O, reason not the need! Our basest beggars Are in the poorest thing superfluous. Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man's life is cheap as beast's. Thou art a lady: If only to go warm were gorgeous, Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true need- You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need!”

“Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,Who is already sick and pale with griefThat thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .”

“And while thoulivest, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain anduncoined constancy; for he perforce must do theeright, because he hath not the gift to woo in otherplaces: for these fellows of infinite tongue, thatcan rhyme themselves into ladies' favours, they doalways reason themselves out again. What! aspeaker is but a prater; a rhyme is but a ballad. Agood leg will fall; a straight back will stoop; ablack beard will turn white; a curled pate will growbald; a fair face will wither; a full eye will waxhollow: but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and themoon; or, rather, the sun, and not the moon; for itshines bright and never changes, but keeps hiscourse truly. If thou would have such a one, takeme; and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier,take a king. And what sayest thou then to my love?speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee”