What power is it which mounts my love so high, that makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye
Give thy thoughts no tongue.
Such as we are made of, such we be.
The teeming Autumn big with rich increase, bearing the wanton burden of the prime like widowed wombs after their lords decease.
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!
He that hath the steerage of my course, Direct my sail.