Making Night Hideous.

Reason Thus With Life: If I Do Lose Thee, I Do Lose A Thing That None But Fools Would Keep.

O, My Offence Is Rank, It Smells To Heaven

Through Tattered Clothes Great Vices Do Appear; Robes And Furred Gowns Hide All. Plate Sin With Gold And The Strong Lance Of Justice Hurtless Breaks. Arm It In Rags, A Pigmy's Straw Does Pierce It.

It Provokes The Desire, But It Takes Away The Performance

The Time Is Out Of Joint : O Cursed Spite, That Ever I Was Born To Set It Right!