Were't Not For Laughing, I Should Pity

Blest Are Those Whose Blood And Judgment Are So Well Commingled, That They Are Not A Pipe For Fortune's Finger To Sound What Stop She Please.

Be Not Afeard; The Isle Is Full Of Noises, Sounds, And Sweet Airs, That Give Delight And Hurt Not. Sometimes A Thousand Twangling Instruments Will Hum About Mine Ears; And Sometime Voices, That, If I Then Had Waked After Long Sleep, Will Make Me Sleep Again: And Then, In Dreaming, The Clouds Methought Would Open, And Show Riches Ready To Drop Upon Me; That, When I Waked, I Cried To Dream Again.

Tis The Times' Plague, When Madmen Lead The Blind.

Speak Me Fair In Death.

Unnatural Deeds Do Breed Unnatural Troubles.