Is This A Dagger Which I See

To Loathe The Taste Of Sweetness, Whereof Little More Than A Little Is By Much Too Much.

Unhappy That I Am, I Cannot Heave My Heart Into My Mouth.

But Whate'er You Are That In This Desert Inaccessible, Under The Shade Of Melancholy Boughs, Lose And Neglect The Creeping Hours Of Time; If You Have Ever Looked On Better Days, If Ever Been Where Bells Knoll'd To Church, If Ever Sat At Any Good Man's Feast, If Ever From Your Eyelids Wiped A Tear, And Know What 'tis To Pity And Be Pitied, Let Gentleness My Strong Enforcement Be. . . .

What Is Light, If Sylvia Be Not Seen? What Is Joy If Sylvia Be Not By?

What Wouldst Thou Do, Old Man? Think'st Thou That Duty Shall Have Dread To Speak When Power To Flattery Bows?