Downy Sleep, Death's Counterfeit.

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.

A Pair Of Star-crossed Lovers.

So Full Of Artless Jealousy Is Guilt, It Spills Itself In Fearing To Be Spilt.

I Can No Longer Live By Thinking.

There's Not The Smallest Orb Which Thou Behold'st But In His Motion Like An Angel Sings.