So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.

His jest will savour but of shallow wit, When thousands weep, more than did laugh at it.

Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones; Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale: When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears and seem to weep with me; And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these.

Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.

Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.

Sound trumpets! Let our bloody colours wave! And either victory, or else a grave.

The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow We are such stuff as dreams are made of.