Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices, That, if I then had waked after long sleep, Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open, and show riches Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked, I cried to dream again.

When truth kills truth, O devilish holy fray!

I must to the barber's, monsieur, for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face.

Alas, their love may be call'd appetite. No motion of the liver, but the palate

The plants look up to heaven, from whence they have their nourishment.

Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth But that our soft conditions and our hearts Should well agree with our external parts?

There is no such sport as sport by sport o'erthrown.