Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black.

I understand a fury in your words,
But not the words.

The heavens themselves, the planets and this centre
Observe degree, priority and place.

What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?

'Tis best to weigh The enemy more mighty than he seems

The night is long that never finds the day.