To Pore Upon A Book, To Seek

Believe Then, If You Please, That I Can Do Strange Things. [act 5, Scene 2]

The Poet's Eye, In A Fine Frenzy Rolling, Doth Glance From Heaven To Earth, From Earth To Heaven.

Foul Whisp'rings Are Abroad.

For Sweetest Things Turn Sourest By Their Deeds; Lillies That Fester Smell Far Worse Than Weeds.

O Heaven! Were Man, But Constant, He Were Perfect.