There's her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December.

No doubt they rose up early to observe The rite of May; and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity.

More matter for a May morning.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date.

All furnished, all in arms; All plum'd like estridges that with the wind Bated like eagles having lately bathed; Glittering in golden coats like images; As full of spirit as the month of May And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer; Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.

We know what we are, but know not what we may be.