In Thy Face I See The Map

Nature's Tears Are Reason's Merriment.

A Jest's Prosperity Lies In The Ear

Blind Is His Love, And Best Befits The Dark.

I Pray You, In Your Letters, When You Shall These Unlucky Deeds Relate, Speak Of Me As I Am; Nothing Extenuate, Nor Set Down Aught In Malice. Then Must You Speak Of One That Loved Not Wisely But Too Well; Of One Not Easily Jealous, But Being Wrought, Perplexed In The Extreme. . .

To Persist In Doing Wrong Extenuates Not The Wrong, But Makes It Much More Heavy.