To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy.

T'is true: there's magic in the web of it.

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.

If ever thou be'st bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage.

Still it cried ‘Sleep no more!’ to all the house: ‘Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more,—Macbeth shall sleep no more!

I am sir Oracle, and when I ope my lips, let no dog bark.

Tis a happy thing To be the father unto many sons.