My Crown Is In My Heart, Not

An Envious Fever Of Pale And Bloodless Emulation.

Thine Eyes I Love, And They As Pitying Me, Knowing Thy Heart Torment Me With Disdain, Have Put On Black, And Loving Mourners Be, Looking With Pretty Ruth Upon My Pain.

Love Bears It Out Even To The Edge Of Doom.

Alas, Our Frailty Is The Cause , Not We! For, Such As We Are Made Of, Such We Be.

You'd Be So Lean, That Blast Of January Would Blow You Through And Through. Now, My Fair'st Friend, I Would I Had Some Flowers O' The Spring That Might Become Your Time Of Day.