Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?

I must to the barber's, monsieur, for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face.

Yield not thy neck To fortunes yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance.

We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh; few are angels.

If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'

Scarce can I speak, my choler is so great. Oh! I could hew up rocks, and fight with flint.

Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry, stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.