Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well.
I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.
A great cause of the night is lack of the sun.
Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colored taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.
To pore upon a book, to seek the light of truth.
Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.