The Daintiest Last, To Make The End

However Wickedness Outstrips Men, It Has No Wings To Fly From God.

Our Thoughts Are Ours, Their Ends None Of Our Own

Music, Moody Food Of Us That Trade In Love.

Within The Hollow Crown That Rounds The Mortal Temples Of A King Keeps Death His Court.

Being Your Slave What Should I Do But Tend, Upon The Hours, And Times Of Your Desire? I Have No Precious Time At All To Spend; Nor Services To Do Till You Require.