Nature hath made her substance apt enough
To spend itself, and spend too fast:
It needs the help of none
That is so prone
To lavish out untouch’d, and languish all alone.
Death.
Time, hold thy peace, and shake thy slow-pac’d sand;
Thine idle minutes make no way:
Thy glass exceeds her hour, or else doth stand,
I cannot hold, I cannot stay.