I will be free, even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.
When great leaves fall, the winter is at hand.
Let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them.
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief
O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From the world-wearied flesh
Dreams are the children of idled minds.