Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.
Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.
Tis but a base, ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.
The arms are fair, When the intent of bearing them is just.
If her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her, she would infect to the north star!
What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, looking before and after, gave us not that capability and god-like reason to fust in us unused.