Would I Were Dead, If God's Good

They Are Hare-brain'd Slaves.

To Unpathed Waters, Undreamed Shores.

Conceit, More Rich In Matter Than In Words, Brags Of His Substance, Not Of Ornament: They Are But Beggars That Can Count Their Worth; But My True Love Is Grown To Such Excess, I Cannot Sum Up Half My Sum Of Wealth.

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On, Give Me Excess Of It; That Surfeiting, The Appetite May Sicken, And So Die.

Give Me That Man That Is Not Passion's Slave, And I Will Wear Him In My Heart's Core, In My Heart Of Heart, As I Do Thee.