Tear-falling Pity Dwells Not In This Eye.

This Is A Gift That I Have, Simple, Simple; A Foolish Extravagant Spirit Full Of Forms, Figures, Shapes, Objects, Ideas, Apprehensions, Motions, Revolutions; These Are Begot In The Ventricle Of Memory, Nourished In The Womb Of Pia Mater, And Delivered Upon The Mellowing Of Occasion.

Thine Eyes I Love, And They, As Pitying Me, Knowing Thy Heart Torment Me With Disdain, Have Put On Black And Loving Mourners Be, Looking With Pretty Ruth Upon My Pain. And Truly Not The Morning Sun Of Heaven Better Becomes The Grey Cheeks Of The East, Nor That Full Star That Ushers In The Even, Doth Half That Glory To The Sober West, As Those Two Mourning Eyes Become Thy Face: O! Let It Then As Well Beseem Thy Heart To Mourn For Me Since Mourning Doth Thee Grace, And Suit Thy Pity Like In Every Part. Then Will I Swear Beauty Herself Is Black, And All They Foul That Thy Complexion Lack

Let's Take The Instant By The Forward Top; For We Are Old, And On Our Quick'st Decrees The Inaudible And Noiseless Foot Of Time Steals Ere We Can Effect Them.

Abandon All Remorse; On Horror's Head Horrors Accumulate.

Let Us Sit And Mock The Good Housewife Fortune From Her Wheel, That Her Gifts May Henceforth Be Bestowed Equally, I Would We Could Do So For Her Benefits Are Mightily Misplaced And The Bountiful Blind Girl Doth Most Mistake In Her Gifts To Women. 'tis True For Those That She Makes Fair She Scarce Makes Honest And Those That She Makes Honest She Makes Very Ill-favouredly. Nay, Now Thou Goest From Fortunes Office To Natures. Fortune Reigns In Gifts Of The World, Not In The Lineaments Of Nature.