What if this mixture do not work at all? FTLN 2512 Shall I be married then tomorrow morning?

And if thou darest, I’ll give thee remedy

O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris, FTLN 2390 From off the battlements of any tower, FTLN 239180 Or walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk

Give this ring to my true knight

 I am aweary. Give me leave awhile. FTLN 1375 Fie, how my bones ache! What a jaunt have I!

 If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully. FTLN 0923100 Or, if thou thinkest I am too quickly won, FTLN 0924 I’ll frown and be perverse and say thee nay, FTLN 0925 So thou wilt woo, but else not for the world.

I know not how to tell thee who I am. FTLN 088360 My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself FTLN 0884 Because it is an enemy to thee. FTLN 0885 Had I it written, I would tear the word.

An open-arse, thou a pop’rin pear. FTLN 0819 Romeo, good night. I’ll to my truckle bed; FTLN 0820 This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep.—

She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes FTLN 054260 In shape no bigger than an agate stone FTLN 0543 On the forefinger of an alderman, FTLN 0544 Drawn with a team of little atomi FTLN 0545 Over men’s noses as they lie asleep. FTLN 0546 Her wagon spokes made of long spinners’ legs, FTLN 054765 The cover of the wings of grasshoppers, FTLN 0548 Her traces of the smallest spider web, FTLN 0549 Her collars of the moonshine’s wat’ry beams, FTLN 0550 Her whip of cricket’s bone, the lash of film, FTLN 0551 Her wagoner a small gray-coated gnat, FTLN 055270 Not half so big as a round little worm FTLN 0553 Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid. FTLN 0554 Her chariot is an empty hazelnut, FTLN 0555 Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, FTLN 0556 Time out o’ mind the fairies’ coachmakers. FTLN 055775 And in this state she gallops night by night FTLN 0558 Through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love; FTLN 0559 On courtiers’ knees, that dream on cur’sies straight; FTLN 0560 O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees; FTLN 0561 O’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream, FTLN 056280 Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues FTLN 0563 Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are. FTLN 0564 Sometime she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose, FTLN 0565 And then dreams he of smelling out a suit. FTLN 0566 And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail, FTLN 056785 Tickling a parson’s nose as he lies asleep; FTLN 0568 Then he dreams of another benefice. FTLN 0569 Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck, FTLN 0570 And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, FTLN 0571 Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, FTLN 057290 Of healths five fathom deep, and then anon FTLN 0573 Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes FTLN 0574 And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two FTLN 0575 And sleeps again. This is that very Mab FTLN 0576 That plats the manes of horses in the night

 I’ll look to like, if looking liking move. FTLN 0473 But no more deep will I endart mine eye FTLN 0474105 Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.

Sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so loves,

God gi’ good e’en

She hath not seen the change of fourteen years. FTLN 027110 Let two more summers wither in their pride FTLN 0272 Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.

Or else of thee this I prognosticate:     Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.

dearths

prognosticate:

Or else of thee this I prognosticate:     Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.

But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, And, constant stars, in them I read such art 10 As truth and beauty shall together thrive, If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;

But not to tell of good or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality; Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, 5 Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind, Or say with princes if it shall go well, By oft predict that I in heaven find:

date.

prognosticate

art

convert

thrive

derive

wind

find

well

tell

quality

astronomy,

luck

pluck;

Of plagues

astronomy,

methinks

pluck;

our national poet, and the subsequent landing of the Mayflower, the playwright who is an icon of Englishness has also become a central feature of the American dream, in which the mirror of his great dramas gets held up to a society perpetually in search of itself.