You know who you are, but know not who you could be.
This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it.
When the age is in, the wit is out
Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere.
Death lies on her like an untimely frost.
My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that color.