By Heaven, I Love Thee Better Than

Love Adds A Precious Seeing To The Eye.

My Long Sickness Of Health And Living Now Begins To Mend, And Nothing Brings Me All Things.

Either Our History Shall With Full Mouth Speak Freely Of Our Acts, Or Else Our Grave, Like Turkish Mute, Shall Have A Tongueless Mouth, Not Worshipped With A Waxen Epitaph.

Now, Neighbor Confines, Purge You Of Your Scum! Have You A Ruffian That Will Swear, Drink, Dance, Revel The Night, Rob, Murder, And Commit The Oldest Sins The Newest Kind Of Ways?

Conscience Is A Thousand Swords.