Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing; Confederate season, else no creature seeing; Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected, With Hecate’s ban thrice blasted, thrice infected, Thy natural magic and dire property, On wholesome life usurp immediately. Pours the poison into the sleeper’s ears.

Why, let the stricken deer go weep, The hart ungalled play; For some must watch, while some must sleep: So runs the world away.

Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers⁠—if the rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me⁠—with two Provincial roses on my razed shoes, get me a fellowship in a cry of players, sir?

A whole one, I.