Filled with her love, may I be rather grown Mad with much heart, than idiot with none.

ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee

Love is a growing, or full constant light; And his first minute, after noon, is night.

Festive alcohol sometimes leads to an excess of honesty.

If I lose at play, I blaspheme; if my fellow loses, he blasphemes. So, God is always the loser.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy, or charms, can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?

And now good morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear; For love, all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room, an everywhere. Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone, Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown, Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.