The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.

They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die. I'll wink and couch; no man their works must eye.

Let every eye negotiate for itself and trust no agent.

What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fishlike smell; a kind of not of the newest poor-John. A strange fish!

Oh God! that one might read the book of fate, And see the revolution of the times Make mountains level, and the continent, Weary of solid firmness, melt itself Into the sea.

The Devil hath power To assume a pleasing shape.

If you can look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak then unto me.