I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.
That truth should be silent I had almost forgot. (Enobarbus)
The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.
Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?
This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-Paradise.
Fruits that blossom first will first be ripe.