Is she kind as she is fair?
Twas a clever quibble. Here, a garment for it.
I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother
The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good.
Thou hast nor youth nor age But as it were an after dinner sleep Dreaming of both.