Appetite, a universal wolf.

Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.

Now the melancholy God protect thee, and the tailor make thy garments of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is opal.

A dream itself is but a shadow.

Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it's spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent.

What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fishlike smell; a kind of not of the newest poor-John. A strange fish!

Like one who draws the model of a house beyond his power to build it who, half through, gives o'er, and leaves his part-created cost a naked subject to the weeping clouds.