Swift as shadow, short as any dream

O sleep! O gentle sleep! Nature's soft nurse.

Oh God! that one might read the book of fate, And see the revolution of the times Make mountains level, and the continent, Weary of solid firmness, melt itself Into the sea.

As chaste as unsunned snow.

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

I hold my peace, sir? no; No, I will speak as liberal as the north; Let heaven and men and devils, let them all, All, all, cry shame against me, yet I'll speak.

We bring forth weeds when our quick minds lie still.