To Sleep Perchance To Dream

How Much An Ill Word May Empoison Liking!

Seems," Madam? Nay, It Is; I Know Not "seems." 'tis Not Alone My Inky Cloak, Good Mother, Nor Customary Suits Of Solemn Black, Nor Windy Suspiration Of Forced Breath, No, Nor The Fruitful River In The Eye, Nor The Dejected 'havior Of The Visage, Together With All Forms, Moods, Shapes Of Grief, That Can Denote Me Truly: These Indeed Seem, For They Are Actions That A Man Might Play: But I Have That Within Which Passeth Show; These But The Trappings And The Suits Of Woe.

Upon His Royal Face There Is No Note How Dread An Army Hath Enrounded Him.

Now 'tis Spring, And Weeds Are Shallow-rooted; Suffer Them Now And They'll O'ergrow The Garden.

My Glass Shall Not Persuade Me I Am Old, So Long As Youth And Thou Are Of One Date; But When In Thee Time's Furrows I Behold, Then Look I Death My Days Should Expiate.