This is the very coinage of your brain: this bodiless creation ecstasy.

Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valour As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem, Letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,' Like the poor cat i' the adage?

Rich honesty dwells like a miser, Sir, in a poor house; as your pearl in your foul oyster.

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding they brav'ry in their rotten smoke?

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.

For many men that stumble at the threshold are well foretold that danger lurks within.

Then happy I that love and am beloved, where I may not remove nor be removed.