Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain
These violent delights have violent ends.
What a terrible era in which idiots govern the blind.
All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.
By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.
Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.