So fair and foul a day i had not seen.

Night's candles have burned out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops." Hope tinged with melancholy - like life.

O mischief, thou art swift to enter in the thoughts of desperate men!

Never, never, never, never, never! Pray you, undo this button.

Let the end try the man.

There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; There with fantastic garlands did she come Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them: There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook.

But most it is presumption in us when the help of heaven we count the act of men.