The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven; and as imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the poet's pen turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name; such tricks hath strong imagination.

Downy sleep, death's counterfeit.

This day's black fate on more days doth depend; This but begins the woe, others must end.

Tears water our growth.

Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian.

Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.

The attempt and not the deed confounds us.