Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.

We few. We happy few. We band of brothers, for he today That sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother.

Let's go hand in hand, not one before another.

Thou weedy elf-skinned canker-blossom!

He was met even now As mad as the vex'd sea; singing aloud; Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds, With bur-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn.

When workmen strive to do better than well, they do confound their skill in covetousness.

They lie deadly that tell you have good faces.