But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.

The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, Burnt on the water.

We know what we are, but know not what we may be.

Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides: Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain

You are not wood, you are not stones, but men.

Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves, when he did sing; To his music, plants and flowers Ever sprung; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or hearing, die.