We are self-uncertain creatures, and we may Yea, even when we know not, mix our spites And private hates with our defence of Heaven.

The old order changeth, yielding place to new, and god fulfills himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

I know transplanted human worth will bloom to profit otherwhere.

How fares it with the happy dead?

I cannot rest from travel; I will drink Life to the lees.

Some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs.

The woman is so hard Upon the woman.