April hath put a spirit of youth in everything. (Sonnet XCVIII)

“It hurts not the tongue to give fair words.”

“Tis in my memory lock'd,And you yourself shall keep the key of it.”

“As wicked dew as e'er my mother brushedWith raven's feather from unwholesom fen…”

“Умерев сегодня - завтра уже не умрешь”