But Fish Not With This Melancholy Bait

If I Profane With My Unworthiest Hand This Holy Shrine, The Gentle Fine Is This: My Lips, Two Blushing Pilgrims, Ready Stand To Smooth That Rough Touch With A Tender Kiss.

And He Goes Through Life, His Mouth Open, And His Mind Closed.

Thus Hath The Candle Sing'd The Moth. O These Deliberate Fools!

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 Woos Even Now The Frozen Bosom Of The North, And, Being Anger'd, Puffs Away From Thence, Turning His Side To The Dew-dropping South.

By Heaven, I Do Love: And It Hath Taught Me To Rhyme, And To Be Mekancholy.