But O, How Bitter A Thing It

I Am Sure, Though You Can Guess What Temperance Should Be, You Know Not What It Is.

What Hands Are Here? Ha! They Pluck Out Mine Eyes! Will All Great Neptune’s Ocean Wash This Blood Clean From My Hand? No; This My Hand Will Rather The Multitudinous Seas Incarnadine, Making The Green One Red.” “my Hands Are Of Your Colour; But I Shame To Wear A Heart So White. A Little Water Clears Us Of This Deed: How Easy It Is Then! Your Constancy Hath Left You Unattended.

O, What A World Of Vile Ill-favored Faults, Looks Handsome In Three Hundred Pounds A Year!

Time Goes On Crutches Till Love Have All His Rites.

I Pray You Bear Me Henceforth From The Noise And Rumour Of The Field, Where I May Think The Remnant Of My Thoughts In Peace, And Part Of This Body And My Soul With Contemplation And Devout Desires.