Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds.

Their manners are more gentle, kind, than of Our human generation you shall find.

Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.

We cannot all be masters.

For this, be sure, tonight thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up. Urchins Shall forth at vast of night that they may work All exercise on thee. Thou shalt be pinched As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made 'em.

More matter with less art.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.