You shall more command with years than with your weapons.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feelings as to sight?
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.
Go, bid the soldiers shoot.
Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart?
The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream And greedily devour the treacherous bait.