He Is Winding The Watch

How Much More Doth Beauty Beauteous Seem By That Sweet Ornament Which Truth Doth Give!

The Gods Are Just, And Of Our Pleasant Vices Make Instruments To Plague Us.

Is This A Dagger Which I See Before Me, The Handle Toward My Hand? Come, Let Me Clutch Thee. I Have Thee Not, And Yet I See Thee Still. Art Thou Not, Fatal Vision, Sensible To Feeling As To Sight? Or Art Thou But A Dagger Of The Mind, A False Creation, Proceeding From The Heat-oppressed Brain?

When Remedies Are Past, The Griefs Are Ended By Seeing The Worst, Which Late On Hopes Depended.

I Do Love Nothing In The World So Well As You- Is Not That Strange?