William Shakespeare

Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot
That it doth singe yourself.

Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot
That it doth singe yourself.

Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus gins arise,
His steeds to water at read more

Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes.
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise,
Arise, arise!

Wouldst thou have that
Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life,
And live a coward in thine read more

Wouldst thou have that
Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life,
And live a coward in thine own esteem,
Letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,'
Like the poor cat i' th' adage?

Come, my coach! Good night, ladies, good night. Sweet ladies,
good night, good night.

Come, my coach! Good night, ladies, good night. Sweet ladies,
good night, good night.

These are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing read more

These are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion. -Love's Labour 's Lost. Act iv. Sc. 2.