Oh, how this spring of love resembleth, The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all beauty of the Sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away

The readiness is all.

To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on.

And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

A man cannot make him laugh; but that's no marvel; he drinks no wine.... If I had a thousand sons, the first human principle I would teach them should be, to forswear thin potations and to addict themselves to sack.

Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?

Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time in you?