Put Forth Thy Hand, Reach At The

There Are A Sort Of Men, Whose Visages Do Cream And Mantle, Like A Standing Pond; And Do A Willful Stillness Entertain, With Purpose To Be Dressed In An Opinion Of Wisdom, Gravity Profound Conceit; As Who Should Say, I Am Sir Oracle, And When I Ope My Lips, Let No Dog Bark!

Speak To Me As To Thy Thinkings, As Thou Dost Ruminate, And Give Thy Worst Of Thoughts The Worst Of Words.

Charity Itself Fulfills The Law. And Who Can Sever Love From Charity?

And Why Not Death Rather Than Living Torment? To Die Is To Be Banish'd From Myself; And Silvia Is Myself: Banish'd From Her Is Self From Self: A Deadly Banishment!

Come Unto These Yellow Sands, And Then Take Hands. Curtsied When You Have And Kissed The Wild Waves Whist, Foot Is Featly Here And There; And, Sweet Sprites, The Burden Bear. Ariel's Song, Scene Ii, Act I