How is it that the clouds still hang on you?

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.

This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,Was once thought honest.

A beggar's book outworths a noble's blood.

I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.

Making night hideous.

And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!