The third day comes a frost, a killing frost.
When you do dance, I wish you a wave o' the sea, that you might ever do nothing but that.
Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt.
We go to gain a little patch of ground that hath in it no profit but the name.
Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank Here we will sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony