One half of me is yours, the other half is yours, Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours, And so all yours.
The attempt and not the deed confounds us.
He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
Art made tongue-tied by authority.
Who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down?
Sweet recreation barred, what doth ensue but moody and dull melancholy, kinsman to grim and comfortless despair.