Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled; My soul is in the sky: Tongue, lose thy light; Moon take thy flight. Now die, die, die, die, die.
And yet,to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays.
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold
Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania
And therefore is love said to be a child, Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd
Quote: What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?
Things base and vile, holding no quantity, Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste; Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste.
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
The moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven.
So we grew together like to a double cherry, seeming parted, but yet an union in partition, two lovely berries molded on one stem.
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, From earth to heaven.
O, teach me how you look, and with what art You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart."-Helena
Up and down, up and down I will lead them up and down I am feared in field in town Goblin, lead them up and down
In the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush supposed a bear!
Such tricks hath strong imagination, That, if it would but apprehend some joy, It comprehends some bringer of that joy; Or in the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush supposed a bear!
Never anything can be amiss, when simpleness and duty tender it.
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven; and as imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the poet's pen turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name; such tricks hath strong imagination.
Cupid is a knavish lad, Thus to make poor females mad.
Ay me! for aught that ever I could read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.
I sat upon a promontory, And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back, Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath, That the rude sea grew civil at her song; And certain stars shot madly from their spheres, To hear the sea-maid's music.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
Four days will quickly steep themselves in nights; Four nights will quickly dream away the time; And then the moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven, shall behold the night of our solemnities.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
So quick bright things come to confusion.
The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was.
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