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!
In the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush supposed a bear!
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends.
All's 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.
But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
I am that merry wanderer of the night.
And yet,to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays.
If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear.
I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was.
Lord, what fools these mortals be!
The course of true love never did run smooth.
Are you sure/That we are awake? It seems to me/That yet we sleep, we dream
So quick bright things come to confusion.
So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.
Though she be but little, she is fierce!
All is well that ends well
Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania
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.
I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
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.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
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.
Cupid is a knavish lad, Thus to make poor females mad.
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