The Fashion Of The World Is To

I Wasted Time, And Now Doth Time Waste Me; For Now Hath Time Made Me His Numbering Clock: My Thoughts Are Minutes; And With Sighs They Jar Their Watches On Unto Mine Eyes, The Outward Watch, Whereto My Finger, Like A Dial's Point, Is Pointing Still, In Cleansing Them From Tears. Now Sir, The Sound That Tells What Hour It Is Are Clamorous Goans, Which Strike Upon My Heart, Which Is The Bell: So Sighs And Tears And Groans Show Minutes, Times, And Hours.

My Business Was Great, And In Such A Case As Mine A Man May Strain Courtesy.

Now Get You To My Lady's Chamber, And Tell Her, Let Her Paint An Inch Thick, To This Favour She Must Come; Make Her Laugh At That.

So Curses All Eve's Daughters Of What Complexion Soever.

Lovers Ever Run Before The Clock