When once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right.

O, what a world of vile ill-favored faults, looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year!

She cannot love, nor take no shape nor project or affection, she is so self-endeared

To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans; coy looks, with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth

The breaking of so great a thing should make A greater crack: the round world Should have shook lions into civil streets, And citizens to their dens.

To die: - to sleep: No more; and, by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished.

I am not in the giving vein today.