He that dies this year is quit for the next.

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings.

He was met even now As mad as the vex'd sea; singing aloud; Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds, With bur-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn.

Sin, that amends, is but patched with virtue.

A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the benefit of sleep and do the effects of watching!

Because it is a customary cross, As die to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.

This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy, this Senior Junior, giant dwarf...Cupid.