Knavery's Plain Face Is Never Seen Till

Minutes, Hours, Days, Months, And Years, Pass'd Over To The End They Were Created, Would Bring White Hairs Unto A Quiet Grave. Ah, What A Life Were This!

Take But Degree Away, Untune That String, And Hark, What Discord Follows!

The Third Day Comes A Frost, A Killing Frost.

Passion Makes The Will Lord Of The Reason.

This Sleep Is Sound Indeed; This Is A Sleep That From This Golden Rigol Hath Divorc'd So Many English Kings.