The iron tongue of Midnight hath told twelve lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall outstep the coming morn as much as we this night over-watch'd.

You are an alchemist; make gold of that.

My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.

In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame.

Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light.

Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on his back.

In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.