Love Is Merely A Madness.

The Blood Weeps From My Heart When I Do Shape, In Forms Imaginary, Th' Unguided Days And Rotten Times That You Shall Look Upon When I Am Sleeping With My Ancestors.

Tis The Times' Plague, When Madmen Lead The Blind.

Striving To Better, Oft We Mar What’s Well.

And Gentlemen In England Now-a-bed Shall Think Themselves Accurs'd They Were Not Here, And Hold Their Manhoods Cheap Whiles Any Speaks That Fought With Us Upon Saint Crispin's Day.

Our Purses Shall Be Proud, Our Garments Poor; For 'tis The Mind That Makes The Body Rich