It Is A Basilisk Unto Mine Eye,

Wisdom And Fortune Combating Together, If That The Former Dare But What It Can, No Chance May Shake It.

Then Was I As A Tree Whose Boughs Did Bend With Fruit; But In One Night, A Storm Or Robbery, Call It What You Will, Shook Down My Mellow Hangings, Nay, My Leaves, And Left Me Bare To Weather.

My Crown Is In My Heart, Not On My Head; Not Decked With Diamonds And Indian Stones, Nor To Be Seen: My Crown Is Called Content, A Crown It Is That Seldom Kings Enjoy.

For What Is Wedlock Forced But A Hell, An Age Of Discord And Continual Strife? Whereas The Contrary Bringeth Bliss, And Is A Pattern Of Celestial Peace.

And He Goes Through Life, His Mouth Open, And His Mind Closed.