O Thou That Dost Inhabit In My

I'll Speak In A Monstrous Little Voice.

My Falcon Now Is Sharp And Passing Empty, And Till She Stoop She Must Not Be Full-gorged, For Then She Never Looks Upon Her Lure.

Sweet Recreation Barred, What Doth Ensue But Moody And Dull Melancholy, Kinsman To Grim And Comfortless Despair.

Keep Thy Foot Out Of Brothels, Thy Hand Out Of Plackets, Thy Pen From Lender's Books, And Defy The Foul Fiend.

Things Base And Vile, Holding No Quantity, Love Can Transpose To Form And Dignity. Love Looks Not With The Eyes, But With The Mind, And Therefore Is Winged Cupid Painted Blind. Nor Hath Love's Mind Of Any Judgment Taste; Wings And No Eyes Figure Unheedy Haste.