In the dead vast and middle of the night.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Hamlet. Act i. Sc. 2.

Her father loved me; oft invited me;

Still question'd me the story of my life,

From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes,

That I have passed.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days,

To the very moment that he bade me tell it:

Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,

Of moving accidents by flood and field,

Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach,

Of being taken by the insolent foe

And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence

And portance in my travels' history;

Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle,

Rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch heaven,

It was my hint to speak,—such was the process;

And of the Cannibals that each other eat,

The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads

Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear

Would Desdemona seriously incline.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Othello. Act i. Sc. 3.

And raw in fields the rude militia swarms,

Mouths without hands; maintain'd at vast expense,

In peace a charge, in war a weak defence;

Stout once a month they march, a blustering band,

And ever but in times of need at hand.

John Dryden (1631-1701): Cymon and Iphigenia. Line 400.

One science only will one genius fit:

So vast is art, so narrow human wit.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Essay on Criticism. Part i. Line 60.