“Thou talk'st of nothing." "True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasty; Which is as thin of substance as the air; And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his face t the dew-dropping south.”

“True, I talk of dreams,Which are the children of an idle brain,Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,Which is as thin of substance as the air,And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north,And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence,Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.”

“His soul, it seemed to him, was more than empty. It was desiccated, reduced to the powder of its substance and now in danger of being blown away by the first puff of the dawn wind that presaged the sun.”

“There is nothing in England more constant than the inconstancy of dress.”

“I could wish for nothing more than to die for a childish dream in which I truly believed.”

“It is not necessary for the whole of nature to take up arms to crush him: a puff of smoke, a drop of water, is enough to kill him. But even if the universe should crush him, man would still be more noble than that which destroys him, because he knows that he dies and he realizes the advantage which the universe possesses over him. The universe knows nothing of this.”