Summer's Lease Hath All Too Short A

If Fortune Torments Me, Hope Contents Me.

How Well He's Read, To Reason Against Reading!

Every Inordinate Cup Is Unbless'd, And The Ingredient Is A Devil.

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.

Downy Sleep, Death's Counterfeit.