New herrings, new!' we must cry, every time we make ourselves public, or else we shall be christened with a hundred new titles of idiotism.
From winter, plague and pestilence, good lord, deliver us!
Shape your coat according to your cloth.
Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king
Immortal Spenser, no frailty hath thy fame but the imputation of this idiot's friendship!
Blest is that government where no art thrives.