Make passionate my sense of hearing.

At this hour Lie at my mercy all mine enemies.

The let-alone lies not in your good will.

Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs.

Thoughts are but dreams till their effects are tried.

Ay, but to die and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstrution and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world.

I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.