Company, Villainous Company, Hath Been The Spoil

Seems," Madam? Nay, It Is; I Know Not "seems." 'tis Not Alone My Inky Cloak, Good Mother, Nor Customary Suits Of Solemn Black, Nor Windy Suspiration Of Forced Breath, No, Nor The Fruitful River In The Eye, Nor The Dejected 'havior Of The Visage, Together With All Forms, Moods, Shapes Of Grief, That Can Denote Me Truly: These Indeed Seem, For They Are Actions That A Man Might Play: But I Have That Within Which Passeth Show; These But The Trappings And The Suits Of Woe.

I Take Thee At Thy Word: Call Me But Love, And I'll Be New Baptized; Henceforth I Never Will Be Romeo.

How Many Things By Season Seasoned Are To Their Right Praise And True Perfection!

The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention Like Deep Harmony.

By Heaven, I Love Thee Better Than Myself