And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear, millions of mischiefs.
Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me.
The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow We are such stuff as dreams are made of.
Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven.
Be advised; Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot That it do singe yourself: we may outrun, By violent swiftness, that which we run at, And lose by over-running. Know you not, The fire that mounts the liquor til run o'er, In seeming to augment it wastes it?