It is a sin to be a mocker.

So they loved as love in twain Had the essence but in one; Two distinct, divisions none.

Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.

Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone.

A good wit will make use of anything.

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices, That, if I then had waked after long sleep, Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open, and show riches Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked, I cried to dream again.

Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me And tune his merry note, Unto the sweet bird's throat; Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.