Glory is like a circle in the water, which never ceaseth to enlarge itself, till, by broad spreading, it disperse to naught.

So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.

We are such stuff that dreams are made of.

Discuss unto me: art thou officer, Or art thou base, common, and popular?

Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.

This is the very coinage of your brain: this bodiless creation ecstasy.

Tis a blushing shame-faced spirit that mutinies in a man's bosom. It fills a man full of obstacles. It made me once restore a purse of gold that (by chance) I found. It beggars any man that keeps it.