Scratching could not make it worse, an't were such a face as yours were.

Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

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

I thank you all and here dismiss you all, and to the love and favor of my country commit myself, my person, and the cause.

We are time's subjects, and time bids be gone.

To be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature.

What must be shall be.