Have Not Saints Lips, And Holy Palmers

When I Waked, I Cried To Dream Again

With Mirth In Funeral And With Dirge In Marriage.

I Hold It Cowardice To Rest Mistrustful Where A Noble Heart Hath Pawned An Open Hand In Sign Of Love.

To Die: - To Sleep: No More; And, By A Sleep To Say We End The Heart-ache And The Thousand Natural Shocks That Flesh Is Heir To, 'tis A Consummation Devoutly To Be Wished.

The Stroke Of Death Is As A Lover's Pinch, Which Hurts And Is Desired.