But Like Of Each Thing

How Much Better Is It To Weep At Joy Than To Joy At Weeping?

Look To Her, Moor, If Thou Has Eyes To See. She Has Deceived Her Father, And May Thee.

I Do Not Seek To Quench Your Love's Hot Fire, But Qualify The Fire's Extreme Rage, Lest It Should Burn Above The Bounds Of Reason.

Look How The World's Poor People Are Amazed At Apparitions, Signs And Prodigies!

O, That This Too Too Solid Flesh Would Melt Thaw And Resolve Itself Into A Dew! Or That The Everlasting Had Not Fix'd His Canon 'gainst Self-slaughter! O God! God! How Weary, Stale, Flat And Unprofitable, (135) Seem To Me All The Uses Of This World! Fie On't! Ah Fie! 'tis An Unweeded Garden, That Grows To Seed; Things Rank And Gross In Nature Possess It Merely. That It Should Come To This! But Two Months Dead: Nay, Not So Much, Not Two: (140) So Excellent A King; That Was, To This.