We must love men, ere to us they will seem worthy of our love.
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night.
How use doth breed a habit in a man.
I and my bosom must debate awhile, and then I would no other company.
When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.
Oh God! that one might read the book of fate, And see the revolution of the times Make mountains level, and the continent, Weary of solid firmness, melt itself Into the sea.