This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.

There's some ill planet reigns: I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable.

There live not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat and grows old.

Is it possible he should know what he is, and be that he is?

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

How poor are they that have have not patients.

When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men; for thus sings he, Cuckoo; Cuckoo, cuckoo; O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear.