There's daggers in men's smiles.
Summer's lease hath all too short a date.
You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
Where the bee sucks, there suck I In the cow-slip's bell i lie There I couch when owls do cry
He hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink; his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts. (Shakespeare, Love's Labor's Lost, IV)
. . from this moment The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. And even now, To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done.