This thought is as a death.
Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service
Such tricks hath strong imagination, That, if it would but apprehend some joy, It comprehends some bringer of that joy; Or in the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush supposed a bear!
The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept.
Winter's not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way.
Memory, the warder of the brain.