And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!

The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.

O, let him pass. He hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer.

A man may see how this world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears: see how yond justice rails upon yon simple thief. Hark, in thine ear: change places; and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief?

I had rather be a Kitten, and cry mew, Than one of these same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I had rather heare a Brazen Candlestick turn'd, Or a dry Wheele grate on the Axle-tree, And that would set my teeth nothing an edge, Nothing so much, as mincing Poetrie.

I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I'll be married to a sponge.

Short summers lightly have a forward spring.