Come, and take choice of all my library, And so beguile thy sorrow.

I can see he's not in your good books,' said the messenger. 'No, and if he were I would burn my library.

I would fain die a dry death.

Hardness ever of hardness is mother.

A nun of winter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them.

The fool multitude, that choose by show, not learning more than the fond eye doth teach.

Time and the hour run through the roughest day.