I awoke in the Midsummer not-to-call night, in the white and the walk of the morning
The moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven.
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.
Though she be but little, she is fierce!
All's well that ends well.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
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.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
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.
I am that merry wanderer of the night.
Are you sure/That we are awake? It seems to me/That yet we sleep, we dream
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!
I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.
And yet,to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays.
So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.
All is well that ends well
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.
But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
So quick bright things come to confusion.
Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania
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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