It is the cowish terror of his spirit that dares not undertake; he'll not feel wrongs which tie him to an answer.

If music be the food of love, play on.

This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so, it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt.

When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.

But thy eternal summer shall not fade.

I had as lief have been myself alone.

O' What may man within him hide, though angel on the outward side!