(..) Not earth to give me food, nor heaven light, rest and repose lock me from day and night Each instrument that fouls the face of joy meet what Both here and hence pursue me lasting strife if once a widow ever I be wife If she should break it now Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, leave me here a while (..)

(..) I see Prince Hamlet makes a show of love. Beware, Ophelia, do not trust his vows Hold it but a fashion and a toy in blood, a violet in the spring of primy nature Fleeting, not permanent, sweet, not lasting, the suppliance of the moment, no more - No more but so? - Think it no more (..)