Crowns In My Purse I Have, And

To Be In Love- Where Scorn Is Bought With Groans, Coy Looks With Heart-sore Sighs, One Fading Moment's Mirth With Twenty Watchful, Weary, Tedious Nights; If Haply Won, Perhaps A Hapless Gain; If Lost, Why Then A Grievous Labour Won; However, But A Folly Bought With Wit, Or Else A Wit By Folly Vanquished.

Infirm Of Purpose! Give Me The Daggers: The Sleeping And The Dead Are But As Pictures: ‘tis The Eye Of Childhood That Fears A Painted Devil

Under The Greenwood Tree, Who Loves To Lie With Me And Tune His Merry Note, Unto The Sweet Bird's Throat; Come Hither, Come Hither, Come Hither. Here Shall He See No Enemy But Winter And Rough Weather.

Still It Cried ‘sleep No More!’ To All The House: ‘glamis Hath Murder’d Sleep, And Therefore Cawdor Shall Sleep No More,—macbeth Shall Sleep No More!

For My Grief's So Great That No Supporter But The Huge Firm Earth Can Hold It Up: Here I And Sorrows Sit; Here Is My Throne, Bid Kings Come Bow To It. (constance, From King John, Act Iii, Scene 1)