This thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine.
It is the stars, The stars above us, govern our conditions.
Nothing in his life became him like leaving it.
Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colored taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.
There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting.
The hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.