Never anything can be amiss, when simpleness and duty tender it.
And therefore is love said to be a child, Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd
I am that merry wanderer of the night.
So we grew together like to a double cherry, seeming parted, but yet an union in partition, two lovely berries molded on one stem.
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.
Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania
To you your father should be as a god.
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends.
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.
Quote: What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?
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.
O, teach me how you look, and with what art You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart."-Helena
Cupid is a knavish lad, Thus to make poor females mad.
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.
The moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven.
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 poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, From earth to heaven.
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
A lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing.
Are you sure/That we are awake? It seems to me/That yet we sleep, we dream
I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.
So quick bright things come to confusion.
Though she be but little, she is fierce!
And yet,to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays.
But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
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