Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.

You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you; And here remain with your uncertainty!

The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.

Dreams are the children of idled minds.

Love does not see with the eyes, but with the soul.

I would give all of my fame for a pot of ale and safety.

Well, honor is the subject of my story.