To the best bride-bed will we, And the blots of nature's hand Shall upon their children be. Every fairy take his gait; And each several chamber bless, And the owner of it blessed. Trip away; Make no stay: Meet me all by break of day. MERCHANT OF VENICE. THE BIRTH AND DEATH OF FANCY.* TELL ELL me where is fancy bred, How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engendered in the eyes, With gazing fed; and fancy dies Fancy is constantly used by Shakespeare and his contemporaries in the sense of love. THE CHOICE. Gold. you ALL that glisters is not gold, Silver. The fire seven times tried this; You that choose not by the view, Turn you where your lady is, And claim her with a loving kiss. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SIGH INCONSTANCY OF MEN. I IGH no more, ladies, sigh no more, One foot in sea, and one on shore; To one thing constant never: But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny; 2 Sing no more ditties, sing no mo DONE Then sigh not so, &c. HERO'S EPITAPH. ONE to death by slanderous tongues Was the Hero that here lies; Death, in guerdon of her wrongs, Gives her fame which never dies: So the life that died with shame, Lives in death with glorious fame. Hang thou there upon the tomb, Praising her when I am dumb. PAR HYMN AT THE TOMB. ARDON, goddess of the night, Those that slew thy virgin knight; For the which, with songs of woe, Round about her tomb they go. Midnight, assist our moan; Graves yawn, and yield your dead, Heavenly, heavenly. Y on sinful fantasy! FY Fy on lust and luxury! Lust is but a bloody fire, Kindled with unchaste desire, Fed in heart; whose flames aspire, As thoughts do blow them, higher and higher. Pinch him for his villainy; Pinch him, and burn him, and turn him about, TWELFTH NIGHT. SWEET-AND-TWENTY. MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming? O, stay and hear; your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low: Trip no further, pretty sweeting; Journeys end in lovers' meeting, Every wise man's son doth know. What is love? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure. SLAIN BY LOVE. COME away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, My part of death no one so true On Not a flower, not a flower sweet, My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown: Sad true lover never find my grave, AM THE CLOWN'S EXIT. I gone, Sir, And anon, Sir, I'll be with you again, Like to the old Vice, Who with dagger of lath, Pare thy nails, dad, Adieu, goodman drivel. THE RAIN IT RAINETH EVERY DAY. HEN that I was and a little tiny boy, WE With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, A foolish thing was but a toy, |