Hold, or cut bowstrings.

Time's the king of men; he's both their parent, and he is their grave, and gives them what he will, not what they crave.

Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, when time is old and hath forgot itself, when waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, and blind oblivion swallowed cities up, and mighty states characterless are grated to dusty nothing, yet let memory, from false to false, among false maids in love, upbraid my falsehood!

...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.

My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel; I know not where I am nor what I do.

This rough magic I here abjure and when I have required some heavenly music, which even now I do, to work mine end upon their senses that this airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book.

Ere I could make thee open thy white hand, and clap thyself my love; then didst thou utter, I am your's for ever!