Presume not that I am the thing I was.

To pore upon a book, to seek the light of truth.

Glory is like a circle in the water, which never ceaseth to enlarge itself, till, by broad spreading, it disperse to naught.

Benvolio- "By my head, here come the Capulets." Mercutio- "By my heel, I care not.

She dreams of him that has forgot her love; You dote on her that cares not for your love. 'Tis pity love should be so contrary; And thinking of it makes me cry 'alas!

O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frightened thee, 1710. That thou no more will weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.