If This Were Played Upon A Stage

You Are Not Worth The Dust Which The Rude Wind Blows In Your Face.

For We, Which Now Behold These Present Days, Have Eyes To Wonder, But Lack Tongues To Praise.

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.

If All The Year Were Playing Holidays; To Sport Would Be As Tedious As To Work.

Now, By The World, It Is A Lusty Wench; I Love Her Ten Times More Than E'er I Did: O, How I Long To Have Some Chat With Her!