Trust not your daughter's minds By what you see them act.

The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.

Happy thou art not; for what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get; and what thou hast, forgettest.

Thou call'st me dog before thou hadst a cause, But since I am a dog, beware my fangs.

Why, I can smile and murder whiles I smile, And cry 'content' to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face for all occasions

Blow, blow, thou winter wind Thou art not so unkind, As man's ingratitude.

Now is the winter of our discontent.