The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow We are such stuff as dreams are made of.

Patch up thine old body for heaven.

Spirits are not finely touched But to fine issues, nor Nature never lends The smallest scruple of her excellence But like a thrifty goddess she determines Herself the glory of a creditor,Both thanks and use.

My language! heavens!I am the best of them that speak this speech. Were I but where 'tis spoken.

Best men oft are moulded out of faults.

To show our simple skill, That is the true beginning of our end.

These violent delights have violent ends And in their triump die, like fire and powder Which, as they kiss, consume