Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.

O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention, A kingdom for a stage, princes to act And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!

Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well.

Discharge my followers; let them hence away, From Richard's night to Bolingbrooke's fair day.

Oh what fools we mortals are.

in that small [time] most greatly lived this star of England: Fortune made his sword, By which the world's best garden he achiev'd And left it to his son imperial lord. Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown'd King of France and England did this King succeed; Whose state so many of had the managing, That they lost France and made his England bleed.

For where is any author in the world Teaches such beauty as a woman's eye?