To Loathe The Taste Of Sweetness, Whereof

True, I Talk Of Dreams, Which Are The Children Of An Idle Brain, Begot Of Nothing But Vain Fantasy.

O, What A Goodly Outside Falsehood Hath!

Bell, Book And Candle Shall Not Drive Me Back, When Gold And Silver Becks Me To Come On.

Teeth Hadst Thou In Thy Head When Thou Wast Born, To Signify Thou Camest To Bite The World.

Then Was I As A Tree Whose Boughs Did Bend With Fruit; But In One Night, A Storm Or Robbery, Call It What You Will, Shook Down My Mellow Hangings, Nay, My Leaves, And Left Me Bare To Weather.