Fair words never hurt the tongue.
Blood, though it sleep a time, yet never dies. The gods on murtherers fix revengeful eyes.
And let a scholar all earth's volumes carry, he will be but a walking dictionary: a mere articulate clock.
Be free all worthy spirits, and stretch yourselves, for greatness and for height.
I pray, what flowers are these? The pansy this, O, that's for lover's thoughts.
Pure innovation is more gross than error.