Make Not Your Thoughts Your Prisons.

I Would With Such Perfection Govern, Sir, T'excel The Golden Age.

One May Smile, And Smile, And Be A Villain.

Be Not Afeard; The Isle Is Full Of Noises, Sounds, And Sweet Airs, That Give Delight And Hurt Not. Sometimes A Thousand Twangling Instruments Will Hum About Mine Ears; And Sometime Voices, That, If I Then Had Waked After Long Sleep, Will Make Me Sleep 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.

Shine Out Fair Sun, Till I Have Bought A Glass, That I May See My Shadow As I Pass.

Take But Degree Away, Untune That String, And Hark, What Discord Follows!