O, Let My Books Be Then The

Let Still Woman Take An Elder Than Herself: So Wears She To Him, So Sways She Level In Her Husband's Heart, For, Boy, However We Do Praise Ourselves, Our Fancies Are More Giddy And Unfirm, More Longing, Wavering, Sooner To Be Lost And Warn, Than Women's Are.

Ay Me! For Aught That I Could Ever Read, Could Ever Hear By Tale Or History, The Course Of True Love Never Did Run Smooth. But, Either It Was Different In Blood,- Or Else It Stood Upon The Choice Of Friends,- Or, If There Were A Sympathy In Choice, War, Death, Or Sickness Did Lay Siege To It.

It Warms The Very Sickness In My Heart, That I Shall Live And Tell Him To His Teeth, "thus Diddest Thou;"

Will All Great Neptune's Ocean Wash This Blood Clean From My Hand? No, This My Hand Will Rather The Multitudinous Seas Incarnadine, Making The Green One Red.

It Is The Very Error Of The Moon; She Comes More Nearer Earth Than She Was Wont, And Makes Men Mad.