The blood of youth burns not with such excess as gravity's revolt to wantonness.
A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!
God defend me from that Welsh fairy, Lest he transform me to a piece of cheese!
My heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand.
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery?
So. Lie there, my art.