I know not how to tell thee who I am: My name, dear saint, is hateful to
myself, Because it is an enemy to thee. Had I it written, I would tear the word.
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I mean, sir, in delay We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.
Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits.
Five times in that ere once in our five wits.
True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.
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