I Am Not Bound To Please Thee

Sorrow, Like A Heavy Ringing Bell, Once Set On Ringing, With Its Own Weight Goes; Then Little Strength Rings Out The Doleful Knell.

Doubting Things Go Ill Often Hurts More Than To Be Sure They Do; For Certainties Either Are Past Remedies, Or, Timely Knowing, The Remedy Then Born.

If Ever Thou Shalt Love, In The Sweet Pangs Of It Remember Me; For Such As I Am All True Lovers Are, Unstaid And Skittish In All Motions Else Save In The Constant Image Of The Creature That Is Beloved.

Either Our History Shall With Full Mouth Speak Freely Of Our Acts, Or Else Our Grave, Like Turkish Mute, Shall Have A Tongueless Mouth, Not Worshipped With A Waxen Epitaph.

I Love You With So Much Of My Heart That None Is Left To Protest.