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.

When once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right.

I pray you bear me henceforth from the noise and rumour of the field, where I may think the remnant of my thoughts in peace, and part of this body and my soul with contemplation and devout desires.

Thou call'st me dog before thou hadst a cause, But since I am a dog, beware my fangs.

Men judge by the complexion of the sky The state and inclination of the day.

Yea from the table of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial fond records.

Children wish fathers looked but with their eyes; fathers that children with their judgment looked; and either may be wrong.