Tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation.

Now the melancholy God protect thee, and the tailor make thy garments of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is opal.

A little more than kin, and less than kind.

Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And, live we how we can, yet die we must.

This most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o-erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire.

Tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus.

Then to Silvia let us sing that Silvia is excelling. She excels each mortal thing upon the dull earth dwelling.