But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true.
I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, who sways, not as it hath power, but as it is suffered.
Why should we rise because 'tis light? Did we lie down because t'was night?
Having my freedom, boast of nothing else.
The will of man is by his reason sway'd.