Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.
You speak an infinite deal of nothing.
If music be the food of love, play on.
I pray you bear me henceforth from the noise and rumour of the field, where I may think the remnant of my thoughts in peace, and part of this body and my soul with contemplation and devout desires.
And nature must obey necessity.
The will of man is by his reason sway'd.