Ill Met By Moonlight, Proud Titania

I Am Not Prone To Weeping As Our Sex Commonly Are; The Want Of Which Vain Dew Perchance Shall Dry Your Pities; But I Have That Honorable Grief Lodged Here Which Burns Worse Than Tears Drown.

For Naught So Vile That On The Earth Doth Live But To The Earth Some Special Good Doth Give.

Age Cannot Wither Her, Nor Custom Stale Her Infinite Variety.

Within The Hollow Crown That Rounds The Mortal Temples Of A King Keeps Death His Court.

We Make Ourselves Fools To Disport Ourselves And Spend Our Flatteries To Drink Those Men Upon Whose Age We Void It Up Again With Poisonous Spite And Envy.