Vile Worm, Thou Wast O'erlook'd Even In

What? Do I Love Her, That I Desire To Hear Her Speak Again, And Feast Upon Her Eyes

I Can Again Thy Former Light Restore, Should I Repent Me: But Once Put Out Thy Light, Thou Cunning'st Pattern Of Excelling Nature, I Know Not Where Is That Promethean Heat That Can Thy Light Relume.

Fit For The Mountains And The Barbarous Caves, Where Manners Ne'er Were Preached.

Love Is Your Master, For He Masters You; And He That Is So Yoked By A Fool Methinks Should Not Be Chronicled For Wise.

Make Less Thy Body Hence, And More Thy Grace. Leave Gormandizing.