But She Makes Hungry Where She Most

Men's Evil Manners Live In Brass; Their Virtues We Write In Water.

All Pity Choked With Custom Of Fell Deeds.

Would I Were Dead, If God's Good Will Were So, For What Is In This World But Grief And Woe?

This Day I Breathed First: Time Is Come Round, And Where I Did Begin There Shall I End; My Life Is Run His Compass.

Be Not Afeard; The Isle Is Full Of Noises, Sounds, And Sweet Airs, That Give Delight And Hurt Not. Sometimes A Thousand Twangling Instruments Will Hum About Mine Ears; And Sometime Voices, That, If I Then Had Waked After Long Sleep, Will Make Me Sleep Again: And Then, In Dreaming, The Clouds Methought Would Open, And Show Riches Ready To Drop Upon Me; That, When I Waked, I Cried To Dream Again.