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I might call him A thing divine; for nothing natural I ever saw so noble.
Is the third man that e’er I saw; the first That e’er I sigh’d for;
Temperance was a delicate wench.
’tis fresh morning with me When you are by at night.
Nor can imagination form a shape, Besides yourself, to like of.
I, Beyond all limit of what else i’ the world, 85 Do love, prize, honour you.
I am a fool To weep at what I am glad of.
Be not afeard: the isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.
We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.
A devil, a born devil, on whose nature Nurture can never stick; on whom my pains, Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost; And as with age his body uglier grows, 210 So his mind cankers.