We will meet; and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously.

O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you. . . . She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomi Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep.

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn.

They do not abuse the king that flatter him. For flattery is the bellows blows up sin; The thing the which is flattered, but a spark To which that blast gives heat and stronger glowing.

Better three hours too soon, than one hour to late.

I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, who sways, not as it hath power, but as it is suffered.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.