I go, I go, look how I go, swifter than an arrow from a bow
There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it.
Let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them.
Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard.
What the vengeance, could he not speak 'em fair?
Four days will quickly steep themselves in nights; Four nights will quickly dream away the time; And then the moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven, shall behold the night of our solemnities.