They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die. I'll wink and couch; no man their works must eye.

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings.

Things won are done, joy's soul lies in the doing.

We may outrun By violent swiftness And lose by over-running.

Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.

Hang those that talk of fear.

Let men say we be men of good government, being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we steal.