It Is Not Night When I Do

Our Fancies Are More Giddy And Unfirm, More Longing, Wavering, Sooner Lost And Won, Than Women's Are.

Faith, Stay Here This Night; They Will Surely Do Us No Harm; You Saw They Speak Us Fair, Give Us Gold; Methinks They Are Such A Gentle Nation That, But For The Mountain Of Mad Flesh That Claims Marriage Of Me, Could Find In My Heart To Stay Here Still And Turn Witch.

If Ever (as That Ever May Be Near) You Meet In Some Fresh Cheek The Power Of Fancy, Then Shall You Know The Wounds Invisible That Love's Keen, Arrows Make.

Like One Who Draws The Model Of A House Beyond His Power To Build It Who, Half Through, Gives O'er, And Leaves His Part-created Cost A Naked Subject To The Weeping Clouds.

Nothing In His Life Became Him Like Leaving It.