Midnight shout and revelry, Tipsy dance and jollity.
Ah, why should all mankind For one man's fault, be condemned, If guiltless?
Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feathered sleep.
Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.
Where no hope is left, is left no fear.
What needs my Shakespeare for his honour'd bones,- The labour of an age in piled stones? Or that his hallow'd relics should be hid Under a star-y-pointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?