Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.

A very honest woman but something given to lie

Wolves and bears, they say, casting their savagery aside, have done like offices of pity.

ROSS You must have patience, madam. LADY MACDUFF He had none: His flight was madness: when our actions do not, Our fears do make us traitors.

Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew; Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.

I dreamt my lady came and found me dead . . . . . . . . . . . . And breathed such life with kisses in my lips That I revived and was an emperor.