Our enemies are our outward consciences.
My love is as a fever, longing still.
My hands are of your color, but I shame to wear a heart so white.
Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry, stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
Juliet is the east and i am the sun.
O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you. . . . She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomi Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep.