Now, infidel, I have you on the hip!

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

And all this day an unaccustomed spirit lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings.

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.

To die: - to sleep: No more; and, by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished.

Love is familiar. Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love." -