This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so, it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt.

Well, I must be patient; there is no fettering of authority.

For by his face straight shall you know his heart.

You abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone.

Spirits are not finely touched But to fine issues, nor Nature never lends The smallest scruple of her excellence But like a thrifty goddess she determines Herself the glory of a creditor,Both thanks and use.

I had rather live with cheese and garlic in a windmill.

I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand on end Like quills upon the fretful porpentine. But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O list!