April ... hath put a spirit of youth in everything.
The pleasing punishment that women bear.
I had rather be a kitten and cry mew Than one of these same metre ballet-mongers.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet Grace must still look so.
Time, whose millioned accidents creep in betwixt vows, and change decrees of kings, tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharpest intents, divert strong minds to the course of altering things.