Faster than spring-time showers comes thought on thought.

All that glitters is not gold.

I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.(IAGO,ActI,SceneI)

Our wills and fates do so contrary run, That our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.

I feel it gone, yet know not when it left.

Would I were in an alehouse in London.

For mine own part, it was Greek to me.