Yield not thy neck To fortunes yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance.

Bounty, being free itself, thinks all others so.

T'is true: there's magic in the web of it.

And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence

For it falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us While it was ours.

Shall I compare thee to a summer day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate... When in eternal lines to time thou growst So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Love goes toward love.