Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer; But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.

Let the end try the man.

Macbeth to Witches: What are these So wither'd and so wild in their attire, That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth, And yet are on 't?

He that is giddy thinks the world turns round.

We will all laugh at gilded butterflies.

I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.

I have a bone to pick with Fate