All Fancy-sick She Is And Pale Of

I Heard A Bustling Rumor Like A Fray, And The Wind Blows It From The Capitol.

The Gods Are Deaf To Hot And Peevish Vows. They Are Polluted Off'rings, More Abhorred! Than Spotted Livers In The Sacrifice.

And When Love Speaks, The Voice Of All The Gods Makes Heaven Drowsy With The Harmony.

Poor Desdemona! I Am Glad Thy Father's Dead. Thy Match Was Mortal To Him, And Pure Grief Shore His Old Thread In Twain.

I Rather Would Entreat Thy Company; To See The Wonders Of The World Abroad, Than, Living Dully Sluggardized At Home, Wear Out Thy Youth With Shapeless Idleness.