In Thy Foul Throat Thou Liest.

Come, Seeling Night, Scarf Up The Tender Eye Of Pitiful Day, And With Thy Bloody And Invisible Hand Cancel And Tear To Pieces That Great Bond Which Keeps Me Pale. Light Thickens, And The Crow Makes Wing To Th' Rooky Wood. Good Things Of Day Begin To Droop And Drowse, While Night's Black Agents To Their Prey Do Rouse.

I 'gin To Be Aweary Of The Sun, And Wish Th' Estate O' Th' World Were Now Undone.

Fore God, You Have Here A Goodly Dwelling And A Rich.

This Most Excellent Canopy, The Air, Look You, This Brave O-erhanging Firmament, This Majestical Roof Fretted With Golden Fire.

For My Grief's So Great That No Supporter But The Huge Firm Earth Can Hold It Up: Here I And Sorrows Sit; Here Is My Throne, Bid Kings Come Bow To It. (constance, From King John, Act Iii, Scene 1)