Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast, yet love breaks through and picks them all at last.
The insolence of office.
What a piece of work is a man
You have too much respect upon the world; They lose it that do buy it with much care
Ay, Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy.
... the spring, the summer, The chilling autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world By their increase, now knows not which is which.