Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time in you?

Bell, book and candle shall not drive me back, When gold and silver becks me to come on.

'By heaven, that thou art fair, is most infallible true, that thou art beauteous truth itself, that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal.

Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.

Hung be the heavens with black! Yield, day, to night!

And it is very much lamented,... That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye That you might see your shadow.

The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept.