At Christmas, I No More Desire A

Have More Than You Show, Speak Less Than You Know.

Methought I Heard A Voice Cry 'sleep No More! Macbeth Does Murder Sleep', The Innocent Sleep, Sleep That Knits Up The Ravell'd Sleeve Of Care, The Death Of Each Day's Life, Sore Labour's Bath, Balm Of Hurt Minds, Great Nature's Second Course, Chief Nourisher In Life's Feast...

The Native Hue Of Resolution Is Sicklied O'er With The Pale Cast Of Thought; And Enterprises Of Great Pitch And Moment, With This Regard, Their Currents Turn Awry, And Lose The Name Of Action.

The Breaking Of So Great A Thing Should Make A Greater Crack: The Round World Should Have Shook Lions Into Civil Streets, And Citizens To Their Dens.

The Gates Of Monarchs Are Arched So High That Giants May Jet Through And Keep Their Impious Turbans On Without Good Morrow To The Sun.