The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger.

Oh, I have passed a miserable night, so full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams!

When I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs must wither. I'll smell it on the tree.

We make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villians by compulsion.

I rather would entreat thy company; To see the wonders of the world abroad, Than, living dully sluggardized at home, Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.

Tis in my memory lock'd, And you yourself shall keep the key of it.

A very scurvy fellow.