We Will Meet; And There We May

Listen To Many, Speak To A Few.

What, All So Soon Asleep! I Wish Mine Eyes Would, With Themselves, Shut Up My Thoughts.

Thou Art A Slave, Whom Fortune's Tender Arm With Favour Never Clasp'd; But Bred A Dog.

But, Soft! What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks? It Is The East, And Juliet Is The Sun. Arise, Fair Sun, And Kill The Envious Moon, Who Is Already Sick And Pale With Grief, That Thou, Her Maid, Art Far More Fair Than She. Be Not Her Maid, Since She Is Envious; Her Vestal Livery Is But Sick And Green And None But Fools Do Wear It; Cast It Off. It Is My Lady, O, It Is My Love! Oh, That She Knew She Were!

The Appurtenance Of Welcome Is Fashion And Ceremony.