Downy Sleep, Death's Counterfeit.

Arise, Fair Sun, And Kill The Envious Moon, Who Is Already Sick And Pale With Grief That Thou, Her Maid, Art Far More Fair Than She. . . .

The Teeming Autumn Big With Rich Increase, Bearing The Wanton Burden Of The Prime Like Widowed Wombs After Their Lords Decease.

Lay On, Mcduff, And Be Damned He Who First Cries, 'hold, Enough!

I Can Get No Remedy Against This Consumption Of The Purse: Borrowing Only Lingers And Lingers It Out, But The Disease Is Incurable.

And In The Morn And Liquid Dew Of Youth, Contagious Blastments Are Are Most Imminent.