Melancholy Is The Nurse Of Frenzy.

A Countenance More In Sorrow Than In Anger.

There Should Be Hours For Necessities, Not For Delights; Times To Repair Our Nature With Comforting Repose, And Not For Us To Waste These Times.

Fear Not, Cesario, Take Thy Fortunes Up. Be That Thou Know'st Thou Art And Then Thou Art As Great As That Thou Fear'st.

How Wayward Is This Foolish Love That, Like A Testy Babe, Will Scratch The Nurse And Presently, All Humble, Kiss The Rod.

Her Blood Is Settled, And Her Joints Are Stiff; Life And These Lips Have Long Been Separated: Death Lies On Her Like An Untimely Frost Upon The Sweetest Flower Of All The Field.