…when I waked,
I cried to dream again.
a tale told by an idiot…
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.
The play’s the thing…
Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of thee, now shalt thou be moved.
I’ll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners, and suppers, and sleeping hours, excepted.
Mend your speech a little,
Lest it may mar your fortunes.
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber’d here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,..
Better a witty fool, than a foolish wit.