Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more.
There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
For they are yet ear-kissing arguments.
Plenty and peace breed cowards; hardness ever of hardiness is mother.
So wise so young, they say, do never live long.
Who is Silvia What is she, That all our swains commend her Holy, fair, and wise is she.