I would fain die a dry death.
Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground.
What seest thou else
In the dark backward and abysm of time?
I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated
To closeness and the bettering of my mind.
Like one
Who having into truth, by telling of it,
Made such a sinner of his memory,
To credit his own lie.
My library
Was dukedom large enough.
Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me
From mine own library with volumes that
I prize above my dukedom.
From the still-vexed Bermoothes.
I will be correspondent to command,
And do my spiriting gently.
Fill all thy bones with aches.
Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands:
Courtsied when you have, and kiss'd
The wild waves whist.
Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
The fringed curtains of thine eye advance.
There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple:
If the ill spirit have so fair a house,
Good things will strive to dwell with 't.
Gon. Here is everything advantageous to life.
Ant. True; save means to live.
A very ancient and fish-like smell.
Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.
Fer. Here's my hand.
Mir. And mine, with my heart in 't.
He that dies pays all debts.
A kind
Of excellent dumb discourse.
Deeper than e'er plummet sounded.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
With foreheads villanous low.
Deeper than did ever plummet sound
I 'll drown my book.
Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie.