Grief Hath Two Tongues; And Never Woman

The Rest, Is Silence.

Your Worm Is Your Only Emperor For Diet; We Fat All Creatures Else To Fat Us, And We Fat Ourselves For Maggots.

She Marking Them Begins A Wailing Note And Sings Extemporally A Woeful Ditty How Love Makes Young Men Thrall And Old Men Dote How Love Is Wise In Folly, Foolish-witty Her Heavy Anthem Still Concludes In Woe, And Still The Choir Of Echoes Answer So.

Give Me To Drink Mandragora.

O, Then, What Graces In My Love Do Dwell, That He Hath Turn'd A Heaven Unto Hell