So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh at gilded butterflies.
Death lies on her like an untimely frost.
Here's flowers for you; Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age.
Hate pollutes the mind.
We go to gain a little patch of ground that hath in it no profit but the name.
The bird that hath been limed in a bush, with trembling wings misdoubteth every bush.