'Tis the soldier's life to have their balmy slumbers waked with strife.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind Thou art not so unkind, As man's ingratitude.
O Helena, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine! To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne? Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!
Sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.
The proverb is something musty.
To pore upon a book, to seek the light of truth.