Good morning to you, fair and gracious daughter.
Nature, as it grows again toward earth, is fashioned for the journey, dull and heavy.
The moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven.
Make the doors upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the casement; shut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole; stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.
The sudden hand of Death close up mine eye!
I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.