I have had my labor for my travail; ill-thought-on of her, and ill-thought-on of you; gone between and between, but small thanks for my labor.

Why, universal plodding poisons up The nimble spirits in the arteries, As motion and long-during action tires The sinewy vigor of the traveller.

Another lean unwashed artificer Cuts off his tale and talks of Arthur's death.

What work's, my countrymen, in hand? Where go you With bats and clubs? The matter? Speak, I pray you.

O, how full of briers is this working-day world!

I try to forget what happiness was, and when that don't work, I study the stars.