“I was promised on a time To have reason for my rhyme; From that time unto this season, I received nor rhyme nor reason.”

No dainty flower or herbs that grows on ground, No arborett with painted blossoms drest And smelling sweet, but there it might be found To bud out fair, and throw her sweet smells all around.

Fondnesse it were for any being free, To covet fetters, though they golden bee.

Who would ever care to do brave deed, Or strive in virtue others to excel, If none should yield him his deserved meed Due praise, that is the spur of doing well? For if good were not praised more than ill, None would choose goodness of his own free will.

Man’s wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.

The fish once caught, new bait will hardly bite.

But O the exceeding grace Of highest God, that loves his creatures so, And all his works with mercy doth embrace, That blessed angels, he sends to and fro, To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe.

For since mine eyes your joyous sight did miss, my cheerful day is turned to cheerless night.

Sluggish idleness–the nurse of sin.

Yet is there one more cursed than they all, That canker-worm, that monster, jealousie, Which eats the heart and feeds upon the gall, Turning all love’s delight to misery, Through fear of losing his felicity.

For we by conquest, of our soveraine might,And by eternall doome of Fate’s decree,Have wonne the Empire of the Heavens bright.

Death is an equall doome To good and bad, the common In of rest.

Laws ought to be fashioned unto the manners and conditions of the people whom they are meant to benefit, and not imposed upon them according to the simple rule of right.

To be wise and eke to love, Is granted scarce to gods above.

For deeds to die, however nobly done, And thoughts of men to as themselves decay, But wise words taught in numbers for to run, Recorded by the Muses, live for ay.

Good is no good, but if it be spend, God giveth good for none other end.

Me seems the world is run quite out of square,From the first point of his appointed source,And being once amiss grows daily worse and worse.

I’m suffocating on empty promises and twisted truths. I’m drowning in a bottomless pool of illusion.

I’m sure stars and moon run out of laugh, every time a lover promises pluck one of them.

She was getting fat and he was getting bald. As promised, they were growing old together.

His promises looked so promising that she just ignored the blatant truths.

You should make great things, not promising great things.

Sadness is great, the parting is a pain, yet in this pain lives the promise of reunion.

My sadness is that you broke your promise.

The past gives you an identity and the future holds the promise of salvation, of fulfillment in whaterver form. Both are illusions.