The Man That Hath No Music In

She Never Told Her Love, But Let Concealment, Like A Worm 'i Th' Bud, Feed On Her Damask Cheek. She Pinned In Thought; And, With A Green And Yellow Melancholy, She Sat Like Patience On A Monument, Smiling At Grief. Was Not This Love Indeed? We Men May Say More, Swear More; But Indeed Our Shows Are More Than Will; For We Still Prove Much In Our Vows But Little In Our Love.

It Will Have Blood, They Say; Blood Will Have Blood.

Lilies That Fester Smell Far Worse Than Weeds.

The Gaudy, Blabbing, And Remorseful Day Is Crept Into The Bosom Of The Sea.

You, And Your Lady, Take From My Heart All Thankfulness!