But Fish Not With This

Too Much Of Water Hast Thou, Poor Ophelia, And Therefore I Forbid My Tears.

The Lunatic, The Lover, And The Poet, Are Of Imagination All Compact.

Speak The Speech, I Pray You, As I Pronounced It To You-trippingly On The Tongue; But If You Mouth It, As Many Of Your Players Do, I Had As Lief The Town-crier Spoke My Lines. Nor Do Not Saw The Air Too Much With Your Hand, Thus, But Use All Gently; For In The Very Torrent, Tempest, And As I May Say, The Whirlwind Of Your Passion, You Must Acquire And Beget A Temperance That May Give It Smoothness.

How Poor Are They That Have Not Patience! What Wound Did Ever Heal But By Degrees?

For Though The Camomile, The More It Is Trodden On The Faster It Grows, Yet Youth, The More It Is Wasted, The Sooner It Wears.