Pardon, gentles all, the flat unraised spirits that have dared on this unworthy scaffold to bring forth so great an object.

The gallantry of his grief did put me into a towering passion.

Melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.

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.

Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.

For so work the honey bees, creatures that by a rule in nature teach the act of order to a peopled kingdom.

There is a time in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.