The moon's an arrant thief,And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.

Over hill, over dale,Thorough bush, thorough brier,Over park, over pale,Thorough flood, thorough fire,I do wander everywhere.

The robb'd that smiles, steals something from the thief

What a deformed thief this fashion is

Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love

Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.