The moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven.

Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.

When griping grief the heart doth wound, and doleful dumps the mind opresses, then music, with her silver sound, with speedy help doth lend redress.

I have lov'd her ever since I saw her; and still I see her beautiful

What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no.

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.

Fill all thy bones with aches.