Do Thou Amend Thy Face, And I'll

The Moon Of Rome, Chaste As The Icicle That's Curded By The Frost From Purest Snow.

No, Time, Thou Shalt Not Boast That I Do Change.

Away! Thou'rt Poison To My Blood.

To Move Wild Laughter In The Throat Of Death? It Cannot Be; It Is Impossible: Mirth Cannot Move A Soul In Agony.

When He Shall Die, Take Him And Cut Him Out In Little Stars, And He Will Make The Face Of Heaven So Fine That All The World Will Be In Love With Night And Pay No Worship To The Garish Sun.