Dreams are the children of idled minds.
I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo to in festival terms.
Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the feared.
Tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus.
O world, world! thus is the poor agent despised. O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavor be so loved, and the performance so loathed?
O time, thou must untangle this, not I. It is too hard a knot for me t'untie.