When Truth Kills Truth, O Devilish Holy

An Old Man, Broken With The Storms Of State, Is Come To Lay His Weary Bones Among Ye; Give Him A Little Earth For Charity!

He Knows What It's Like To Strut And Fret His Hour Upon The Stage And Then Be Heard No More.

But No Perfection Is So Absolute, That Some Impurity Doth Not Pollute.

My Business Was Great, And In Such A Case As Mine A Man May Strain Courtesy.

If Ever (as That Ever May Be Near) You Meet In Some Fresh Cheek The Power Of Fancy, Then Shall You Know The Wounds Invisible That Love's Keen, Arrows Make.