. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest.
Here comes Monseiur Le Beau. Rosalind: With his mouth full of news. Celia: Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed their young. Rosalind: Then shall we be news-crammed. Celia: All the better; we shall be the more marketable.
This was the noblest Roman of them all. All the conspirators, save only he,Did that they did in envy of Caesar;He only, in a general honest thoughtAnd common good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle, and the elementsSo mixd in him that Nature might stand upAnd say to all the world, This was a man!
Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves, when he did sing; To his music, plants and flowers Ever sprung; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or hearing, die.