Ill Met By Moonlight, Proud Titania

Enjoy The Honey-heavy Dew Of Slumber.

I Am Too Old To Fawn Upon A Nurse, Too Far In Years To Be A Pupil Now.

'tis Thought The King Is Dead; We Will Not Stay. The Bay Trees In Our Country Are All Wither'd.

We All Are Men, In Our Own Natures Frail, And Capable Of Our Flesh; Few Are Angels.

If Ever Thou Shalt Love, In The Sweet Pangs Of It Remember Me; For Such As I Am All True Lovers Are, Unstaid And Skittish In All Motions Else Save In The Constant Image Of The Creature That Is Beloved.