At this hour Lie at my mercy all mine enemies.

For such things as you, I can scarce think there's any, ye're so slight.

The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven; and as imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the poet's pen turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name; such tricks hath strong imagination.

That truth should be silent I had almost forgot. (Enobarbus)

Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak; Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit, Smother'd in errors, feeble, shallow, weak, The folded meaning of your words' deceit.

False face must hide what the false heart doth know.

Bounty, being free itself, thinks all others so.