(_Richard III._)
True hope is swift and flies with swallow's wings.
(_Richard III._)
As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye,
Or russet-pated choughs, many in sort
Rising and cawing at the gun's report
Sever themselves and madly sweep the sky,
So at his sight away his fellows fly.
(_Midsummer Night's Dream._)
And plant life is touched with special tenderness:
All the bystanders had wet their cheeks
Like trees bedashed with rain.
(_Richard III._)
Why grow the branches when the root is gone?
Why wither not the leaves that want their sap?
(_Richard III._)
Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,
Which in their summer beauty kiss'd each other.
(_Richard III._)
Ah! my tender babes!
My unblown flowers, new appearing sweets.
(_Richard III._)
Romeo is
To himself so secret and so close ...
As is the bud bit with an envious worm,
Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air
Or dedicate his beauty to the sun.
It is astonishing to see how Shakespeare noted the smallest and most
fragile things, and found the most poetic expression for them without
any sacrifice of truth to Nature.
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