All the world's a stage, and all the men and women mearly players.
Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity.
Though music oft hath such a charm to make bad good, and good provoke to harm.
Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.
I love thee, and it is my love that speaks
What is aught but as 'tis valued?