My Dear, Dear Lord, The Purest Treasure

The Will Of Man Is By His Reason Sway'd.

You Have Witchcraft In Your Lips

To Show An Unfelt Sorrow Is An Office Which The False Man Does Easy.

Death, That Hath Suck'd The Honey Of Thy Breath Hath Had No Power Yet Upon Thy Beauty.

Come, Seeling Night, Scarf Up The Tender Eye Of Pitiful Day, And With Thy Bloody And Invisible Hand Cancel And Tear To Pieces That Great Bond Which Keeps Me Pale. Light Thickens, And The Crow Makes Wing To Th' Rooky Wood. Good Things Of Day Begin To Droop And Drowse, While Night's Black Agents To Their Prey Do Rouse.