Lips, let sour words go by and language end:
What is amiss plague and infection mend!
Graves only be men's works and death their gain!
Sun, hide thy beams! Timon hath done his reign.

“Niech smu­tek będzie dla nas kiedyś miłym wspomnieniem.”

“For as you were when first yout eye I eyed,such seems your beauty still”

“You are a lover. Borrow Cupid's wingsand soar with them above a common bound.”

“Ay me! for aught that ever I could read,could ever hear by tale or history,the …”