This rough magic I here abjure and when I have required some heavenly music, which even now I do, to work mine end upon their senses that this airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book.

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, to love that well which thou must leave ere long

Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.

In thy foul throat thou liest.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind Thou art not so unkind, As man's ingratitude.

I love a ballad but even too well if it be doleful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed and sung lamentably.

The wheel is come full circle.