I Heard A Bird So Sing, Whose

Speak Me Fair In Death.

Would I Were In An Alehouse In London.

My Grief Lies Onward, And My Joy Behind.

Here, Thou Incestuous, Murderous, Damned Dane, Drink Off This Potion!

O, A Kiss Long As My Exile, Sweet As My Revenge! Now, By The Jealous Queen Of Heaven, That Kiss I Carried From Thee, Dear, And My True Lip Hath Virgined It E'er Since.