Finish, good lady; the bright day is done, And we are for the Dark.

In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility.

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.

For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world, And where thou art not, desolation.

Out, damned spot! Out, I say!

And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear, millions of mischiefs.

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. And let my liver rather heat with wine, than my heart cool with mortifying groans.