Though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod.

Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death.

O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!

Jesters do oft prove prophets.

Go, bid the soldiers shoot.

For many men that stumble at the threshold are well foretold that danger lurks within.

Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew; Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.