The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.

I scorn you, scurvy companion.

How long a time lies in one little word?

You speak an infinite deal of nothing.

Sound trumpets! Let our bloody colours wave! And either victory, or else a grave.

The iron tongue of Midnight hath told twelve lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall outstep the coming morn as much as we this night over-watch'd.

She cannot love, nor take no shape nor project or affection, she is so self-endeared