Many that are not mad have, sure, more lack of reason.

Captain of our fairy band, Helena is here at hand, And the youth, mistook by me, Pleading for a lover's fee. Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be!

Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight

We are advertis'd by our loving friends.

It is the purpose that makes strong the vow; But vows to every purpose must not hold.

To business that we love we rise betime, and go to't with delight.

I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me: but once put out thy light, Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat That can thy light relume.