Our hopes, I see, resemble much the sun, That rising and declining cast large shadows; But when his beams are dressed in's midday brightness, Yields … - George Chapman

Man is a torch borne in the wind; a dream
But of a shadow, summ'd with all his substance.

Make ducks and drakes with shillings.

O Innocence, the sacred amulet
'Gainst all the poisons of infirmity;
Of all misfortune, injury, and death,
That makes a man in tune still in himself;
Free from the hell to be his own accuser,
Ever in quiet, endless joy enjoying;
No strife nor no sedition in his powers;
No motion in his will against his reason,
No thought 'gainst thought—
But (all parts in him, friendly and secure,
Fruitful of all best things in all worst seasons)
He can with every wish be in their plenty;
When the infectious guilt of one foul crime
Destroys the free content of all our time.