Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on his back.
To beguile the time, look like the time.
Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.
Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.
When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.
The earth, that is nature's mother, is her tomb.