I'll Fight, Till From My Bones My

The Iron Tongue Of Midnight Hath Told Twelve Lovers, To Bed; 'tis Almost Fairy Time. I Fear We Shall Outstep The Coming Morn As Much As We This Night Over-watch'd.

Thus We Play The Fool With The Time And The Spirits Of The Wise Sit In The Clouds And Mock Us.

Thou Canst Not Speak Of What Thou Dost Not Feel.

How Sometimes Nature Will Betray Its Folly, Its Tenderness, And Make Itself A Pastime To Harder Bosoms!

Get Thee Glass Eyes, And Like A Scurvy Politician, Seem To See The Things Thou Dost Not.