His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise.

This thing of darkness I acknowlege mine. There is nothing more confining than the prison we don't know we are in.

Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud; but, God He knows, thy share thereof is small.

These signs have marked me extraordinary, And all the courses of my life do show I am not in the roll of common men.

In time we hate that which we often fear.

What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fishlike smell; a kind of not of the newest poor-John. A strange fish!

You wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange wife and a fosset-seller.