Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.

Are you sure/That we are awake? It seems to me/That yet we sleep, we dream

The extreme parts of time extremely forms all causes to the purpose of his speed.

This is his uncle's teaching, this Worcester, Malevolent to you In all aspects, Which makes him prune himself and bristle up The crest of youth against your dignity.

We will have rings and things and fine array

At Christmas, I no more desire a rose.

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.