To Business That We Love We Rise

O' What May Man Within Him Hide, Though Angel On The Outward Side!

Let Me Embrace Thee, Sour Adversity, For Wise Men Say It Is The Wisest Course.

The Eye Of Man Hath Not Heard, The Ear Of Man Hath Not Seen, Man's Hand Is Not Able To Taste, His Tongue To Conceive, Nor His Heart To Report, What My Dream Was.

Poor Desdemona! I Am Glad Thy Father's Dead. Thy Match Was Mortal To Him, And Pure Grief Shore His Old Thread In Twain.

Truly Thou Art Damned, Like An Ill-roasted Egg, All On One Side.