In Peace There's Nothing So Becomes A

And In The Morn And Liquid Dew Of Youth, Contagious Blastments Are Are Most Imminent.

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

To Bed, To Bed; Sleep Kill Those Pretty Eyes, And Give As Soft Attachment To Thy Senses, As Infants Empty Of All Thought.

By Heaven, I'll Make A Ghost Of Him That Lets Me.

For To Be Wise And Love Exceeds Man's Might.