The truth you speak doth lack some gentlenessAnd time to speak it in. You rub the soreWhen you should bring the plaster.

Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come.

Age cannot wither her nor custom stale Her infinite variety.

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

Ambition should be made from sterner stuff.

And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.