Tell Me, Daughter Juliet, How Stands Your

A Book? O, Rare One, Be Not, As Is Our Fangled World, A Garment Nobler Than That It Covers.

The Native Hue Of Resolution Is Sicklied O'er With The Pale Cast Of Thought; And Enterprises Of Great Pitch And Moment, With This Regard, Their Currents Turn Awry, And Lose The Name Of Action.

'tis Dangerous To Take A Cold, To Sleep, To Drink; But I Tell You, My Lord Fool, Out Of This Nettle, Danger, We Pluck This Flower, Safety.

Is Not The Truth The Truth?

How Sweet The Moonlight Sleeps Upon This Bank! Here Will We Sit, And Let The Sounds Of Music Creep In Our Ears; Soft Stillness And The Night Become The Touches Of Sweet Harmony. Sit, Jessica: Look, How The Floor Of Heaven Is Thick Inlaid With Patines Of Bright Gold; There's Not The Smallest Orb Which Thou Behold'st But In His Motion Like An Angel Sings, Still Quiring To The Young-eyed Cherubins. Such Harmony Is In Immortal Souls; But Whilst This Muddy Vesture Of Decay Doth Grossly Close It In, We Cannot Hear It.