Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the feared.
Do not spread the compost on the weeds.
So they loved as love in twain Had the essence but in one; Two distinct, divisions none.
Most dangerous is that temptation that doth goad us on to sin in loving virtue.
O sleep! O gentle sleep! Nature's soft nurse.
Taste your legs, sire: put them into motion.