O, for an engine, to keep back all clocks, or make the sun forget his motion!

Indeed there's a woundy luck in names.

Were Guilt is, Rage and Courage doth abound.

It is less dishonor to hear imperfectly than to speak imperfectly. The ears are excused; the understanding is not.

It strikes! one, two, Three, four, five, six. Enough, enough, dear watch, Thy pulse hath beat enough. Now sleep and rest; Would thou could'st make the time to do so too; I'll wind thee up no more.

Popular men, They must create strange monsters, and then quell them, To make their arts seem something.

Whosoever loves not picture is injurious to truth, and all the wisdom of poetry. Picture is the invention of heaven, the most ancient and most akin to nature. It is itself a silent work, and always one and the same habit.