Poor bird! Thou 'dst never fear the net nor lime, The pitfall nor the gin.
The law hath not been dead though it hath slept.
Tongues in trees, books in running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.
Blow blow thou winter wind Thou art not so unkind As mans ingratitude.
How easy is it for the proper false In women's waxen hearts to set their forms! Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we, (30) For such as we are made of, such we be.
To be or not to be, that's the question.