Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you.

When I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs must wither. I'll smell it on the tree.

Poor and content, is rich and rich enough; But riches, fineless, is as poor as winter, To him that ever fears he shall be poor.

Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: ‘tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil

Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the world but I, and I am sunburnt; I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband!

Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbeth

His neigh is like the bidding of a monarch, and his countenance enforces homage. He is indeed a horse.