Though music oft hath such a charm to make bad good, and good provoke to harm.

Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.

Oh, flatter me; for love delights in praises.

Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.

A breath thou art, Servile to all the skyey influences.

Either to die the death or to abjure For ever the society of men. Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires; Know of your youth, examine well your blood, Whether, if you yield not to your father's choice, You can endure the livery of a nun, For aye to be in shady cloister mew'd, To live a barren sister all your life, Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon. Thrice-blessed they that master so their blood, To undergo such maiden pilgrimage; But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd, Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives and dies in single blessedness.

Give obedience where 'tis truly owed.