The low bay melts into a ring of silver, And slips it on the shore's reluctant finger, Though in an hour the tide will turn, will tremble, Forsaking her because the moon persuades him....
Is it not a wonderful thing to be able to force an astonished plant to bear rare flowers which are foreign to it ... and to obtain a marvellous result from sap which, left to itself, would have produced corollas without beauty?...
Is it not brave to be a king, Techelles! - Usumcasane and Theridamas, Is it not passing brave to be a king, And ride in triumph through Persepolis? - MARLOWE.