Sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief.
Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed.
Ideas are the very coinage of your brain.
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh, oh, oh!
I have been studying how I may compare This prison where I live unto the world; And, for because the world is populous, And here is not a creature but myself, I cannot do it. Yet I'll hammer it out.