The weakest kind of fruit drops earliest to the ground.
But whate'er I am, nor I nor any man that but man is, With nothing shall be pleased 'til he be eased With being nothing.
The world must be peopled!
This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-Paradise.
A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us; His dew falls everywhere.
Every true man's apparel fits your thief.