I can see he's not in your good books,' said the messenger. 'No, and if he were I would burn my library.

His life was gentle; and the elements So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, THIS WAS A MAN!

Thou weedy elf-skinned canker-blossom!

Women being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the walls.

The latter end of a fray, and the beginning of a feast, Fits a dull fighter, and a keen guest.

Beauty's a doubtful good, a glass, a flower, Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour; And beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.

Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.