To pore upon a book, to seek the light of truth.
Winter's not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way.
As full of spirit as the month of May, and as gorgeous as the sun in Midsummer.
Fie, fie, how frantically I square my talk!
My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming; I love not less, though less the show appear: That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming The owner's tongue doth publish every where.
We know what we are, but know not what we may be.