Give Me My Sin Again.

...and Then, In Dreaming, / The Clouds Methought Would Open And Show Riches / Ready To Drop Upon Me, That When I Waked / I Cried To Dream Again.

We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On; And Our Little Life Is Rounded With A Sleep.

There Are A Sort Of Men, Whose Visages Do Cream And Mantle, Like A Standing Pond; And Do A Willful Stillness Entertain, With Purpose To Be Dressed In An Opinion Of Wisdom, Gravity Profound Conceit; As Who Should Say, I Am Sir Oracle, And When I Ope My Lips, Let No Dog Bark!

The Sense Of Death Is Most In Apprehension.

Lord, Lord, How Subject We Old Men Are To This Vice Of Lying!