A man in all the world's new fashion planted, That hath a mint of phrases in his brain.
Alas, their love may be call'd appetite. No motion of the liver, but the palate
Tis but a base, ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.
O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you. . . . She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomi Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep.
Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven.
'Tis better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.