Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose to the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude, and in the calmest and most stillest night, with all appliances and means to boot, deny it to a king?

My cousin's a fool, and thou art another.

If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'

What's gone, and what's past help, Should be past grief.

But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind.

As good luck would have it.

We were not born to sue, but to command.