My Soul Is In The Sky.

Hang There Like Fruit, My Soul, Till The Tree Die!

This Rough Magic I Here Abjure And When I Have Required Some Heavenly Music, Which Even Now I Do, To Work Mine End Upon Their Senses That This Airy Charm Is For, I'll Break My Staff, Bury It Certain Fathoms In The Earth, And Deeper Than Did Ever Plummet Sound, I'll Drown My Book.

This Day's Black Fate On More Days Doth Depend; This But Begins The Woe, Others Must End.

Tis No Sin For A Man To Labor In His Vocation.

They Told Me I Was Everything. 'tis A Lie, I Am Not Ague-proof.