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.
The last taste of sweets is sweetest last.
Can we outrun the heavens?
We are such stuff that dreams are made of.
Though music oft hath such a charm to make bad good, and good provoke to harm.
O heaven! that one might read the book of fate, and see the revolution of the times.