For as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, Or as tie heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive, So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me!
Tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation.
But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind.
This is the very coinage of your brain: this bodiless creation ecstasy.
A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!
A dream itself is but a shadow.