O horror! Horror! Horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee!
Care is no cure, but rather corrosive, For things that are not to be remedied.
The moon shines bright. In such a night as this. When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees and they did make no noise, in such a night.
How soar sweet music is, when time is broke, and no proportion kept!
He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter.
Speak on, but be not over-tedious.