It Is Lost At Dice, What Ancient

What, No More Ceremony? See, My Women! Against The Blown Rose May They Stop Their Nose That Kneel'd Unto The Buds.

The Big Round Tears Cours'd One Another Down His Innocent Nose, In Piteous Chase.

Bosom Upon My Counsel; You'll Find It Wholesome.

Stars Hide Your Fires; Let Not Light See My Black And Deep Desires: The Eyes Wink At The Hand; Yet Let That Be Which The Eye Fears, When It Is Done, To See

As You Are Old And Reverend, You Should Be Wise.