“But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad,
Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastern hill.”
Hamlet, i. 1.

                  “So, haply slander—­

Whose whisper o’er the world’s diameter,
As level as the cannon to his blank,
Transports his poison’d shot—­may miss our name,
And hit the woundless air.”

          
                                                                      Ibid., iv. 1.

                  “Thou sure and firm-set earth,

Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
The very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it.”

          
                                                                    Macbeth, ii. 1.

                 “O thou day o’ the world,

Chain mine arm’d neck; leap thou, attire and all,
Through proof of harness to my heart, and there
Ride on the pants triumphing!”

          
                                                Ant. and Cleo., iv. 8.

                        “For his bounty,

There was no Winter in’t; an Autumn ’twas
That grew the more by reaping:  his delights
Were dolphin-like; they show’d his back above
The element they liv’d in:  in his livery
Walk’d crowns and crownets.”

          
                                                                        Ibid., v. 2.

“The ample proposition that hope makes
In all designs begun on earth below
Fails in the promis’d largeness:  checks and disasters
Grow in the veins of actions highest rear’d.”

“Distinction, with a broad and powerful fan,
Puffing at all, winnows the light away.”
Troil. and Cres., i. 3.

“Be as a planetary plague, when Jove
Will o’er some high-vie’d city hang his poison
In the sick air.”

“Put armour on thine ears and on thine eyes;
Whose proof, nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes,
Nor sight of priests in holy vestments bleeding,
Shall pierce a jot.”

                    “Common mother, thou,
    Whose womb unmeasurable, and infinite breast,
    Teems, and feeds all; whose self-same mettle,
    Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puff’d. 
    Engenders the black toad and adder blue,
    The gilded newt and eyeless venom’d worm;
    Yield him, who all thy human sons doth hate,
    From forth thy plenteous bosom, one poor root!”

                                “What, think’st
    That the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain,
    Will put thy shirt on warm? will these moss’d trees,
    That have outliv’d the eagle, page thy heels,
    And skip where thou point’st out? will the cold brook. 
    Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste,
    To cure thy o’er-night’s surfeit?”