Canst Thou, O Partial Sleep, Give Thy

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.

But Now I Am Cabined, Cribbed, Confined, Bound In To Saucy Doubts And Fears.

Thou Detestable Maw, Thou Womb Of Death.

As In A Theatre, The Eyes Of Men, After A Well-graced Actor Leaves The Stage, Are Idly Bent On Him That Enters Next.

Do As The Heavens Have Done, Forget Your Evil; With Them Forgive Yourself.