The man that hath no music in himself
O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frightened thee, 1710. That thou no more will weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
Sin, that amends, is but patched with virtue.
Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble!
Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?
Knit your hearts with an unslipping knot.