Thoughts are but dreams till their effects are tried.

O for a horse with wings!

They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die. I'll wink and couch; no man their works must eye.

After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst. Nor steel nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further.

Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered by a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marle?

Now, neighbor confines, purge you of your scum! Have you a ruffian that will swear, drink, dance, revel the night, rob, murder, and commit the oldest sins the newest kind of ways?

Nothing routs us but the villainy of our fears.