But years hath done this wrong, To make me write too much, and live too long. - Samuel Daniel

Shame leaves us by degrees.

Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing;
A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using. Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoy’d, it sighing cries— Heigh ho!Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind Not well, nor full nor fasting. Why so?
More we enjoy it, &c.

For ever by Adversity are wrought
The greatest Works of Admiration;
And all the Fair Examples of Renown,
Out of Distress and Misery are grown.