Blow, blow, thou winter wind Thou art not so unkind, As man's ingratitude.

Death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!

Sometimes we are devils to ourselves When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency.

To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I ey'd, Such seems your beauty still.

A dream itself is but a shadow.

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind; So flew'd, so sanded; their heads are hung with ears that sweep away the morning dew.

The extreme parts of time extremely forms all causes to the purpose of his speed.