Summer's lease hath all too short a date.

The play's the thing.

Heaven - the treasury of everlasting life.

Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant can trickle when she wounds!

His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise.

What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, looking before and after, gave us not that capability and god-like reason to fust in us unused.

Full of wise saws and modern instances.