The Gloomy Shade Of Death.

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.

Love Is Merely A Madness, And, I Tell You, Deserves As Well A Dark House And A Whip As Madmen Do.

Beauty's A Doubtful Good, A Glass, A Flower, Lost, Faded, Broken, Dead Within An Hour; And Beauty, Blemish'd Once, For Ever's Lost, In Spite Of Physic, Painting, Pain, And Cost.

Now Would I Give A Thousand Furlongs Of Sea For An Acre Of Barren Ground.

O' Thinkest Thou We Shall Ever Meet Again? I Doubt It Not; And All These Woes Shall Serve For Sweet Discourses In Our Times To Come.