The truest poetry is the most feigning.
A great cause of the night is lack of the sun.
My father compounded with my mother under the Dragon's tail, and my nativity was under Ursa Major, so that it follows, I am rough and lecherous. Tut, I should have been that I am, had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardizing.
The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes. 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest. It becomes The thronèd monarch better than his crown.
Go bind thou up young dangling apricots Which, like unruly children, make their sire Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight. Give some supportance to the bending twigs. Go thou, and like an executioner Cut off the heads of too-fast-growing sprays That look too lofty in our commonwealth. All must be even in our government. You thus employed, I will go root away The noisome weeds which without profit suck The soil's fertility from wholesome flowers.
Kindness, nobler ever than revenge.
This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, By his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here.
Happy thou art not, For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get, And what thou hast, forget'st.
The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept.
Sweet peace conduct his sweet soul to the bosom Of good old Abraham!