I Am Not Of That Feather, To

Fair Ladies, Masked, Are Roses In Their Bud; Dismasked, The Damask Sweet Commixture Shown, Are Angels Vailing Clouds, Or Roses Blown.

Our Revels Now Are Ended. These Our Actors, As I Foretold You, Were All Spirits And Are Melted Into Air, Into Thin Air: And, Like The Baseless Fabric Of This Vision, The Cloud-capp'd Towers, The Gorgeous Palaces, The Solemn Temples, The Great Globe Itself, Yea, All Which It Inherit, Shall Dissolve And, Like This Insubstantial Pageant Faded, Leave Not A Rack Behind. We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On, And Our Little Life Is Rounded With A Sleep.

Love Is Merely A Madness, And, I Tell You, Deserves As Well A Dark House And A Whip As Madmen Do.

If I For My Opinion Bleed, Opinion Shall Be Surgeon To My Hurt, And Keep Me On The Side Where Still I Am.

I Take Thee At Thy Word: Call Me But Love, And I'll Be New Baptized; Henceforth I Never Will Be Romeo.