Look, how the floor of heavenIs thick inlaid with patines of bright gold;There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'stBut in his motion like an angel sings ...Such harmony is in immortal souls;But, whilst this muddy vesture of decayDoth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.
ROMEOThere is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls,Doing more murders in this loathsome world,Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none.Farewell: buy food, and get thyself in flesh.Come, cordial and not poison, go with meTo Juliet's grave; for there must I use thee.
Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain