He is winding the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike.

So fair and foul a day i had not seen.

O heaven! that one might read the book of fate, and see the revolution of the times.

The weakest goes to the wall.

There's beggary in love that can be reckoned

Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer; But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.

This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands,--This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.