They say miracles are past.

They are but beggars that can count their worth.

The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream And greedily devour the treacherous bait.

When truth kills truth, O devilish holy fray!

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.

I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.

My pride fell with my fortunes.