For night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast, And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger; At whose approach ghosts wandring here and there Troop home to church-yards.... For fear lest day should look their shames upon, They willfully exile themselves from light, And must for aye consort with black brow'd night.

I will be brief. Your noble son is mad.

Tis mad idolatry To make the service greater than the god.

My stars shine darkly over me

If wishes would prevail with me, my purpose should not fail with me.

Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.

I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse: borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable.