A dream is nothing else but the echo of our conceits in the day

O, 'tis a precious apophthegmatical pedant who will find matter enough to dilate a whole day of the first invention of “Fy, fa, fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman.”

Dreaming is no other than groaning, while sleep our surgeon hath us in cure.

Evermore mayst thou be canonized as the Nonparreille of impious epistlers.

The Sun shineth as well on the good as the bad: God from on high beholdeth all the workers of iniquity, as well as the upright of heart.

What is Logicke but the highe waie to wrangling, contayning in it a world of bibble babble. Neede we anie of your Greeke, Latine, Hebrue, or anie such gibbrige, when wee have the word of God in English?

A dream is nothing else but a bubbling scum or froth of the fancy, which the day hath left undigested; or an after-feast made of the fragments of idle imaginations.