By Heaven, I'll Make A Ghost Of

If You Love An Addle Egg As Well As You Love An Idle Head, You Would Eat Chickens I' Th' Shell.

Thine Eyes I Love, And They, As Pitying Me, Knowing Thy Heart Torment Me With Disdain, Have Put On Black And Loving Mourners Be, Looking With Pretty Ruth Upon My Pain. And Truly Not The Morning Sun Of Heaven Better Becomes The Grey Cheeks Of The East, Nor That Full Star That Ushers In The Even, Doth Half That Glory To The Sober West, As Those Two Mourning Eyes Become Thy Face: O! Let It Then As Well Beseem Thy Heart To Mourn For Me Since Mourning Doth Thee Grace, And Suit Thy Pity Like In Every Part. Then Will I Swear Beauty Herself Is Black, And All They Foul That Thy Complexion Lack

Yet But Three Come One More. Two Of Both Kinds Make Up Four. Ere She Comes Curst And Sad. Cupid Is A Knavish Lad. Thus To Make Poor Females Mad.

Sick In The World's Regard, Wretched And Low.

I Am Now Of All Humors That Have Showed Themselves Humors Since The Old Days Of Goodman Adam To The Pupil Age Of This Present Twelve O'clock At Midnight.