Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service

We have some salt of our youth in us.

Nature does require her times of preservation.

Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.

We make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villians by compulsion.

Ay, but to die and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstrution and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world.

Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?