Could Beauty, My Lord, Have Better Commerce

The King Hath Note Of All That They Intend, By Interception Which They Dream Not Of.

True, I Talk Of Dreams, Which Are The Children Of An Idle Brain, Begot Of Nothing But Vain Fantasy, Which Is As Thin Of Substance As The Air, And More Inconstant Than The Wind, Who Woos Even Now The Frozen Bosom Of The North, And, Being Anger'd, Puffs Away From Thence, Turning His Side To The Dew-dropping South.

If I Can Catch Him Once Upon The Hip, I Will Feed Fat The Ancient Grudge I Bear Him.

To Business That We Love We Rise Betime, And Go To't With Delight.

And By That Destiny To Perform An Act Whereof What's Past Is Prologue, What To Come In Yours And My Discharge.