While Thou Livest Keep A Good Tongue

Yet Mark'd I Where The Bolt Of Cupid Fell: It Fell Upon A Little Western Flower, Before Milk-white, Now Purple With Love's Wound, And Maidens Call It Love-in-idleness.

O Ceremony, Show Me But Thy Worth? What Is Thy Soul Of Adoration? Art Thou Aught Else But Place, Degree, And Form, Creating Awe And Fear In Other Men?

O Braggart Vile And Damned Furious Wight!

Our Thoughts Are Ours, Their Ends None Of Our Own

Come, Seeling Night, Scarf Up The Tender Eye Of Pitiful Day, And With Thy Bloody And Invisible Hand Cancel And Tear To Pieces That Great Bond Which Keeps Me Pale. Light Thickens, And The Crow Makes Wing To Th' Rooky Wood. Good Things Of Day Begin To Droop And Drowse, While Night's Black Agents To Their Prey Do Rouse.