Faith, stay here this night; they will surely do us no harm; you saw they speak us fair, give us gold; methinks they are such a gentle nation that, but for the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of me, could find in my heart to stay here still and turn witch.

Dreams are the children of idled minds.

He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May.

To pore upon a book, to seek the light of truth.

If love be blind, it best agrees with night

What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.

You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!