We Are Not Ourselves When Nature, Being

Tis Beauty Truly Blent, Whose Red And White Nature's Own Sweet And Cunning Hand Laid On.

Antonio: Will You Stay No Longer? Nor Will You Not That I Go With You? Sebastian: By Your Patience, No. My Stars Shine Darkly Over Me; The Malignancy Of My Fate Might, Perhaps, Distemper Yours; Therefore I Shall Crave Of You Your Leave That I May Bear My Evils Alone. It Were A Bad Recompense For Your Love To Lay Any Of Them On You.

Awake, Dear Heart, Awake. Thou Hast Slept Well. Awake.

Come, And Take Choice Of All My Library, And So Beguile Thy Sorrow.

The Fool Multitude, That Choose By Show, Not Learning More Than The Fond Eye Doth Teach.