The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.

Are you up to your destiny?

And teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night.

All dark and comfortless.

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .

O teach me how I should forget to think (1.1.224)

Every fair from fair sometime declines