Oh, how this spring of love resembleth, The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all beauty of the Sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away
Wisely weigh our sorrow with our comfort.
O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.
I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit.
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
Every true man's apparel fits your thief.