True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.

One good deed dying tongueless Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. Our praises are our wages.

O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable

The time is out of joint.

Now 'tis spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now and they'll o'ergrow the garden.

Courage mounteth with occasion.

Oh! it offends me to the soul to hear a robust periwig-pated fellow, tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings.