Though music oft hath such a charm to make bad good, and good provoke to harm.
The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo.
She is a woman, therefore to be won.
But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind.
Every true man's apparel fits your thief.
O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you. . . . She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomi Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep.