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.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
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.
I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.
Things base and vile, holding no quantity, love can transpose to form and dignity
Are you sure/That we are awake? It seems to me/That yet we sleep, we dream
All is well that ends well
O, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd! She was a vixen when she went to school; And though she be but little, she is fierce.
If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumbered here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend: If you pardon, we will mend: And, as I am an honest Puck, If we have unearned luck Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue, We will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call; So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends.
So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.
I am that merry wanderer of the night.
Lord, what fools these mortals be!
If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear.
Though she be but little, she is fierce!
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.
I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was.
All's well that ends well.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
And therefore is love said to be a child, Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd
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
O, teach me how you look, and with what art You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart."-Helena
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