Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough.
He is not great who is not greatly good.
This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it.
Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords: look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity.
Conscience is a thousand swords.
Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe.