Out, You Tallow-face! You Baggage!

We Are Time's Subjects, And Time Bids Be Gone.

Your Gentleness Shall Force More Than Your Force Move Us To Gentleness.

The Gods Are Just, And Of Our Pleasant Vices Make Instruments To Plague Us.

But I, That Am Not Shaped For Sportive Tricks, Nor Made To Court An Amorous Looking-glass; I, That Am Rudely Stamped, And Want Love's Majesty To Strut Before A Wanton Ambling Nymph.

Love Moderately; Long Love Doth So; Too Swift Arrives As Tardy As Too Slow.