Why, he was met even now As mad as the vexed sea, singing aloud, Crowned with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds, With hardocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn.
Who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down?
'Tis certain, greatness, once fallen out with fortune, Must fall out with men too. What the declined is, He shall as soon read in the eyes of others As feel in his own fall.
When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have express'd Even such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring; And, for they look'd but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing; For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
The naked truth of it is, I have no shirt; I go woolward for penance.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition, By that sin fell the angels; how can man then, The image of his maker, hope to win by it?
This queen will live. Nature awakes, A warmth breathes out of her. She hath not been Entranced above five hours. See how she 'gins To blow into life's flower again.
What hotter hours, Unregistered in vulgar fame, you have Luxuriously picked out.
I had rather be a toad, And live upon the vapour of a dungeon Than keep a corner in the thing I love For others' uses.
The glass of fashion and the mould of form, Th'observed of all observers.