What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste?
You can make hell out of heaven and heaven out of hell. It's all in the mind.
The timely dew of sleep.
The first and wisest of them all professed To know this only, that he nothing knew.
What needs my Shakespeare for his honour'd bones,- The labour of an age in piled stones? Or that his hallow'd relics should be hid Under a star-y-pointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?
It was the winter wild, While the Heaven-born child, All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies.