Sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye.
Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.
The present eye praises the present object.
And teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night.
Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.
O, full of scorpions is my mind!