His golden locks time hath to silver turned; O time too swift! O swiftness never ceasing! His youth ’gainst time and age hath ever spurned, But spurn… - George Peele

What thing is love?—for (well I wot) love is a thing It is a prick, it is a sting, It is a pretty, pretty thing; It is a fire, it is a coal, Whose flame creeps in at every hole!

O Gentle Love, ungentle for thy deede, Thou makest my hart, A bloodie marke,
With piercing shot to bleede.Shoote soft sweete Love, for feare thou shoote amisse, For feare too keene, Thy arrowes beene:
And hit the hart, where my belovèd is.Too faire that fortune were, nor never I Shall be so blest, Among the rest:
That love shall ceaze on her by simpathy.Then since with Love my prayers beare no boote, This doth remaine, To cease my paine,
I take the wound, and die at Venus foote.

Villain, a horse--
Villain, I say, give me a horse to fly,
To swim the river, villain, and to fly.