April ... hath put a spirit of youth in everything.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away.

O, how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.

A happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story

I pardon him, as God shall pardon me.

My heart suspects more than mine eye can see.

He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion.