Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?

Be merry; you have cause, so have we all, of joy; for our escape is much beyond our loss . . . . then wisely weigh our sorrow with our comfort.

An old black ram is tupping your white ewe

she shall scant show well that now shows best.

Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love And sing them loud even in the dead of night.

O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frightened thee, 1710. That thou no more will weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee/ Life would not yield to age.