Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying!

Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your horrors new-begot.

In springtime, the only pretty ring time Birds sing, hey ding A-ding, a-ding Sweet lovers love the spring—

The eye sees all, but the mind shows us what we want to see.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

Why, thou deboshed fish thou...Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie, being but half a fish and half a monster?

Taste your legs, sire: put them into motion.