Shine out fair sun, till I have bought a glass, That I may see my shadow as I pass.

I have a kind soul that would give you thanks. And knows not how to do it but with tears.

I cannot but remember such things were that were most precious to me.

Romeo: I dreamt a dream tonight. Mercutio: And so did I. Romeo: Well, what was yours? Mercutio: That dreamers often lie. Romeo: In bed asleep while they do dream things true.

Heaven give you many, many merry days.

What the great ones do, the less will prattle of

Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew; Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.