If Music Be The Food Of Love,

Thy Food Is Such As Hath Been Belch'd On By Infected Lungs.

There's No More Faith In Thee Than In A Stewed Prune.

But Now I Am Cabined, Cribbed, Confined, Bound In To Saucy Doubts And Fears.

Too Much Of Water Hast Thou, Poor Ophelia, And Therefore I Forbid My Tears: But Yet It Is Our Trick; Nature Her Custom Holds, Let Shame Say What It Will: When These Are Gone, The Woman Will Be Out. — Adieu, My Lord! I Have A Speech Of Fire, That Fain Would Blaze, But That This Folly Drowns It.

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.