Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere.
Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain.
How much salt water thrown away in waste/ To season love, that of it doth not taste.
O, how full of briers is this working-day world!
QUINCE Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. FLUTE Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE Flute, you must take Thisby on you. FLUTE What is Thisby? a wandering knight? QUINCE It is the lady that Pyramus must love. FLUTE Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming.
Men's faults do seldom to themselves appear.