Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing.

Hung be the heavens with black! Yield, day, to night!

These are the forgeries of jealousy; And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.

Up and down, up and down I will lead them up and down I am feared in field in town Goblin, lead them up and down

By a divine instinct, men's minds mistrust ensuing danger; as, by proof, we see the waters swell before a boisterous storm.

The better part of valor is discretion, in the which better part I have saved my life.

Downy sleep, death's counterfeit.