Tis Beauty Truly Blent, Whose

I Told You, Sir, They Were Red-hot With Drinking; So Full Of Valor That They Smote The Air, For Breathing In Their Faces, Beat The Ground For Kissing Of Their Feet.

The Man That Hath No Music In Himself, Nor Is Not Moved With Concord Of Sweet Sounds, Is Fit For Treasons, Stratagems And Spoils.

Is It Not Strange That Desire Should So Many Years Outlive Performance?

Love Is My Sin, And Thy Dear Virtue Hate, Hate Of My Sin, Grounded On Sinful Loving.

Then Must You Speak Of One That Loved Not Wisely But Too Well, Of One Not Easily Jealous But, Being Wrought, Perplexed In The Extreme; Of One Whose Hand, Like The Base Indian, Threw A Pearl Away Richer Than All His Tribe; Of One Whose Subdued Eyes, Albeit Unused To The Melting Mood, Drop Tears As Fast As The Arabian Trees Their Medicinable Gum. Set You Down This, And Say Besides That In Aleppo Once, Where A Malignant And A Turbaned Turk Beat A Venetian And Traduced The State, I Took By Th' Throat The Circumcised Dog And Smote Him Thus.