Bid me run, and I will strive with things impossible.

I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching.

There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it.

So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.

Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief

The worm is not to be trusted.

Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?