Then Love-devouring Death Do What He Dare.

O That My Tongue Were In The Thunder's Mouth! Then With Passion Would I Shake The World, And Rouse From Sleep That Fell Anatomy Which Cannot Hear A Lady's Feeble Voice, Which Scorns A Modern Invocation.

So We'll Live, And Pray, And Sing, And Tell Old Tales, And Laugh At Gilded Butterflies.

You Undergo Too Strict A Paradox, Striving To Make An Ugly Deed Look Fair.

The Best Quarrels, In The Heat, Are Cursed By Those That Feel Their Sharpness.

Where Souls Do Couch On Flowers We'll Hand In Hand.