Now is the winter of our discontent.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.
Set your heart at rest. The fairyland buys not the child of me.
Where souls do couch on flowers we'll hand in hand.
Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.