Don't Waste Your Love On Somebody, Who

O Time, Thou Must Untangle This, Not I. It Is Too Hard A Knot For Me T'untie.

Discomfort Guides My Tongue And Bids Me Speak Of Nothing But Despair.

Tell Me Where Is Fancy Bred, Or In The Heart, Or In The Head? How Begot, How Nourished? Reply, Reply. It Is Engend'red In The Eyes, With Gazing Fed, And Fancy Dies In The Cradle Where It Lies.

The Violence Of Either Grief Or Joy, Their Own Enactures With Themselves Destroy.

The Tyrant Custom, Most Grave Senators, Hath Made The Flinty And Steel Couch Of War My Thrice-driven Bed Of Down.