while memory holds a seat
in this distracted globe

the canker galls the infants of the spring,
too oft before their buttons be disclosed

but I have that within which passeth show

we are such stuff
as dreams are made on, and our little life
is rounded with a sleep

my words fly up, my thoughts remain below:
words without thoughts never to heaven go

jumping o'er times,
turning the accomplishment of many years
into an hour-glass

i 'gin to be aweary of the sun and wish the estate o' the world were now
undone