The sense of death is most in apprehension, And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.

Where souls do couch on flowers we'll hand in hand.

How every fool can play upon the word!

Out of this nettle - danger - we pluck this flower - safety.

There's place and means for every man alive.

That affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence.

I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch.