Thou Art Sad; Get Thee A Wife,

I Have Sounded The Very Base-string Of Humility.

Not From The Stars Do I My Judgement Pluck, And Yet Methinks I Have Astronomy. But Not To Tell Of Good Or Evil Luck, Of Plagues, Of Dearths, Or Season's Quality; Nor Can I Fortune To Brief Minutes Tell ... Or Say With Princes If It Shall Go Well.

Take But Degree Away, Untune That String, And Hark, What Discord Follows!

Grim-visaged War Hath Smoothed His Wrinkled Front; And Now, Instead Of Mounting Barbed Steeds To Fright The Souls Of Fearful Adversaries, He Capers Nimbly In A Lady's Chamber To The Lascivious Pleasing Of A Lute.

When My Love Swears That She Is Made Of Truth, I Do Believe Her, Though I Know She Lies.