Tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation.
Men prize the thing ungained more than it is.
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.
Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.
My falcon now is sharp and passing empty, and till she stoop she must not be full-gorged, for then she never looks upon her lure.
He is winding the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike.