A Knavish Speech Sleeps In A Fool's

And Nothing Is, But What Is Not.

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: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose.

But I Will Be, A Bridegroom In My Death, And Run Into't As To A Lover's Bed.

Then With The Losers Let It Sympathize, For Nothing Can Seem Foul To Those That Win.

Thanks To Men Of Noble Minds, Is Honorable Meed.