William Shakespeare on Moon
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“The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle That's curded by the frost from purest snow.”
“It is the very error of the moon: She comes more nearer earth than she was wont, And makes men mad.”
“How slow This old moon wanes! she lingers my desires, Like to a step-dame or a dowager Long withering out a young man's revenue.”
“Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger, washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound: And through this distemperature we see The seasons alter.”