How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica: look, how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold; There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins. Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

Men judge by the complexion of the sky The state and inclination of the day.

Life's uncertain voyage.

Such thanks as fits a king's remembrance.

There's many a man hath more hair than wit.

O war! thou son of Hell!

What power is it which mounts my love so high, that makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye