No, By My Soul, I

Tis Now The Very Witching Time Of Night, When Churchyards Yawn And Hell Itself Breathes Out Contagion To This World.

Is There No Respect Of Place, Persons, Nor Time In You?

True, I Talk Of Dreams, Which Are The Children Of An Idle Brain, Begot Of Nothing But Vain Fantasy.

A Lean Cheek; Which You Have Not: A Blue Eye, And Sunken; Which You Have Not: An Unquestionable Spirit; Which You Have Not: A Beard Neglected; Which You Have Not: — But I Pardon You For That; For, Simply, Your Having1 In Beard Is A Younger Brother's Revenue: — Then Your Hose Should Be Ungarter'd, Your Bonnet Unhanded, Your Sleeve Unbuttoned, Your Shoe Untied, And Every Thing About You Demonstrating A Careless Desolation.

I Have Seen Roses Damask'd, Red And White, But No Such Roses See I In Her Cheeks.