To business that we love we rise betime, and go to't with delight.
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst. Nor steel nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further.
Love laughs at locksmiths.
Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
Demand me nothing: what you know, you know.
Now 'tis spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now and they'll o'ergrow the garden.