Each Present Joy Or Sorrow

Those, That With Haste Will Make A Mighty Fire, Begin It With Weak Straws.

But Clay And Clay Differs In Dignity, Whose Dust Is Both Alike.

But Thy Eternal Summer Shall Not Fade.

That England, That Was Wont To Conquer Others, Hath Made A Shameful Conquest Of Itself.

This Rough Magic I Here Abjure And When I Have Required Some Heavenly Music, Which Even Now I Do, To Work Mine End Upon Their Senses That This Airy Charm Is For, I'll Break My Staff, Bury It Certain Fathoms In The Earth, And Deeper Than Did Ever Plummet Sound, I'll Drown My Book.