Sleep knits up the raveled sleeve of care.

It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

For death remembered should be like a mirror, Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error.

Love hath made thee a tame snake

I was a coward on instinct.

The course of true love never did run smooth.

And all my mother came into mine eyes And gave me up to tears.