O, how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.

Were all the letters sun, I could not see one.

Such as we are made of, such we be.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray you, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts. There's fennel for you, and columbines: — there 's rue for you; and here's some for me: — we may call it, herb of grace o'Sundays: — you may wear your rue with a difference. — There's a daisy: — I would give you some violets; but they withered all, when my father died: — They say, he made a good end.

To unpathed waters, undreamed shores.

Through tattered clothes, small vices do appear. Robes and furred gowns hide all.