You Know That I Do Fawn On

Winter, Which, Being Full Of Care, Makes Summer's Welcome Thrice More Wish'd, More Rare.

A High Hope For A Low Heaven: God Grant Us Patience!

You Blocks, You Stones, You Worse Than Senseless Things!

Let Us Be Diana's Foresters, Gentlemen Of The Shade, Minions Of The Moon

Tell Me Where Is Fancy Bred, Or In The Heart, Or In The Head? How Begot, How Nourished? Reply, Reply. It Is Engend'red In The Eyes, With Gazing Fed, And Fancy Dies In The Cradle Where It Lies.