The night is long that never finds the day.

Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds.

Weariness can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth finds the down pillow hard.

Except I be by Silvia in the night,/ There is no music in the nightingale;/ Unless I look on Silvia in the day,/ There is no day for me to look upon.

Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive
If you will lead these graces to the grave
And leave the world no copy.

Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black.