At This Hour Lie At My Mercy

How Slow This Old Moon Wanes! She Lingers My Desires, Like To A Stepdame, Or A Dowager, Long Withering Out A Young Man's Revenue.

You Blocks, You Stones, You Worse Than Senseless Things!

Nay Then, Let The Devil Wear Black, For I'll Have A Suit Of Sables.

The Man That Hath No Music In Himself

Thyself Shall See The Act; For, As Thou Urgest Justice, Be Assured Thou Shalt Have Justice, More Than Thou Desir'st.