Dancing is a frenzyand a rage.
Hence it is that old men do plant young trees, the fruit whereof another age shall take.
Wit,--the pupil of the soul's clear eye.
I know my soul hath power to know all things, Yet is she blind and ignorant in all: I know I'm one of Nature's little kings, Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.
Deeds are males, words females are.
For what made that in glory shine so long But poets' Pens, pluckt from Archangels' wings?