In the modesty of fearful duty, I read as much as from the rattling tongue of saucy and audacious eloquence.

Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts.

All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told.

What valor were it, when a cur doth grin, for one to thrust his hand between his teeth, when he might spurn him with his foot away?

Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear

Can we outrun the heavens?

There's nothing in this world can make me joy.