I dreamt my lady came and found me dead . . . . . . . . . . . . And breathed such life with kisses in my lips That I revived and was an emperor.

The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.

But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.

Thou shalt be free As mountain winds: but then exactly do All points of my command.

I am not merry, but I do beguile the thing I am by seeming otherwise.

Exit, pursued by a bear.

A man can die but once.