'tis Brief, My Lord...as Woman's Love.

My Charity Is Outrage, Life My Shame; And In That Shame Still Live My Sorrow's Rage!

Four Days Will Quickly Steep Themselves In Nights; Four Nights Will Quickly Dream Away The Time; And Then The Moon, Like To A Silver Bow New Bent In Heaven, Shall Behold The Night Of Our Solemnities.

In Thee Thy Mother Dies, Our Household's Name, My Death's Revenge, Thy Youth, And England's Fame.

Why, Courage Then! What Cannot Be Avoided 'twere Childish Weakness To Lament Or Fear.

And To Be Merry Best Becomes You; For, Out Of Question, You Were Born In A Merry Hour. Beatrice No, Sure, My Lord, My Mother Cried; But Then There Was A Star Danced, And Under That Was I Born.