. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest.

A very honest woman but something given to lie

Were all the letters sun, I could not see one.

You had measured how long a fool you were upon the ground.

for my grief's so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. (Constance, from King John, Act III, scene 1)

This rough magic I here abjure and when I have required some heavenly music, which even now I do, to work mine end upon their senses that this airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book.

There's hope a great man's memory may outlive his life half a year.