The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.
Well, God's above all; and there be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved.
Would I were in an alehouse in London.
How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping?
O polished perturbation! golden care! That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night.
Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the feared.