O, Speak Again, Bright Angel! For Thou

You Must Confine Yourself Within The Modest Limits Of Order.

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

Never; He Will Not: Age Cannot Wither Her, Nor Custom Stale Her Infinite Variety: Other Women Cloy The Appetites They Feed: But She Makes Hungry Where Most She Satisfies.

The Violence Of Either Grief Or Joy, Their Own Enactures With Themselves Destroy.

Sin From Thy Lips? O Trespass Sweetly Urged! Give Me My Sin Again.