Round about the couldron go:In the poisones entrails throw.Toad,that under cold stoneDays and nights has thirty-oneSweated venom sleeping got,Boil thou first in the charmed pot.Double,double toil and trouble;Fire burn and cauldron bubble. Fillet of a fenny snake,In the cauldron boil and bake;Eye of newt and toe of frog,Wool of bat and tongue of dog,Adder’s fork
When icicles hang by the wallAnd Dick the shepherd blows his nailAnd Tom bears logs into the hall,And milk comes frozen home in pail,When Blood is nipped and ways be foul,Then nightly sings the staring owl,Tu-who;Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow,And coughing drowns
Good frend for Iesvs sake forebeare,To digg the dvst encloased heare.Bleste be Middle English the.svg man Middle English that.svg spares thes stones,And cvrst be he Middle English that.svg moves my bones. In modern spelling: Good friend for Jesus sake forbear,To dig the dust enclosed here.Blessed be the man that spares these stones,And cursed be he
WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I:In a cowslip’s bell I lie;There I couch when owls do cry.On the bat’s back I do fly.After summer merrily:Merrily, merrily, shall I live nowUnder the blossom that hangs on the bough.
When to the sessions of sweet silent thoughtI summon up remembrance of things past,I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste:Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,And weep afresh love’s long since cancelled woe,And moan
When that I was and a little tiny boy,With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,A foolish thing was but a toy,For the rain it raineth every day. But when I came to man’s estate,With hey, ho, . . .‘Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gateFor the rain, . . . But when I
When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,I all alone beweep my outcast state,And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,And look upon myself and curse my fate,wishing me like to one more rich in hope,Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope,With what I most enjoy contented
Under the greenwood treeWho loves to lie with me,And turn his merry noteUnto the sweet bird’s throat,Come hither, come hither, come hither:Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun,And loves to live i’ the sun,Seeking the food he eats,And pleas’d with what he gets,Come hither, come hither, come hither:Here shall
Through the house give glimmering lightBy the dead and drowsy fire;Every elf and fairy spritehop as light as bird from brier. Now, until the break of dayThrough this house each fairy stray.
To be, or not to be: that is the question:Whether tis nobler in the mind to sufferThe slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;No more; and by a sleep to say we endThe heart-ache and the thousand natural shocksThat flesh