I Charge Thee, Hence, And Do Not

There's Such Divinity Doth Hedge A King That Treason Can But Peep To What It Would.

The Let-alone Lies Not In Your Good Will.

You Cannot Call It Love, For At Your Age The Heyday In The Blood Is Tame

What Win I, If I Gain The Thing I Seek? A Dream, A Breath, A Froth Of Fleeting Joy. Who Buys A Minute's Mirth To Wail A Week? Or Sells Eternity To Get A Toy? For One Sweet Grape Who Will The Vine Destroy? Or What Fond Beggar, But To Touch The Crown, Would With The Sceptre Straight Be Strucken Down?

Though Inclination Be As Sharp As Will, My Stronger Guilt Defeats My Strong Intent, And, Like A Man To Double Business Bound, I Stand In Pause Where I Shall First Begin, And Both Neglect.