Your Cause Of Sorrow Must Not Be

The Brightness Of Her Cheek Would Shame Those Stars As Daylight Doth A Lamp; Her Eyes In Heaven Would Through The Airy Region Stream So Bright That Birds Would Sing, And Think It Were Not Night.

We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On; And Our Little Life Is Rounded With A Sleep.

Then To Silvia Let Us Sing That Silvia Is Excelling. She Excels Each Mortal Thing Upon The Dull Earth Dwelling.

For A Quart Of Ale Is A Dish For A King.

And Nothing Is, But What Is Not.