O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.

You lack the season of all natures, sleep.

You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both.

The purest treasure mortal times can afford is a spotless reputation.

Miracles are ceased; and therefore we must needs admit the means, how things are perfected.

To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans; coy looks, with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth

They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die. I'll wink and couch; no man their works must eye.