Vile Worm, Thou Wast O'erlook'd

This Sleep Is Sound Indeed; This Is A Sleep That From This Golden Rigol Hath Divorc'd So Many English Kings.

And Yet, By Heaven, I Think My Love As Rare As Any She Belied With False Compare.

A Fool Thinks Himself To Be Wise, But A Wise Man Knows Himself To Be A Fool.

Though Now This Grained Face Of Mine Be Hid In Sap-consuming Winter's Drizzled Snow, And All The Conduits Of My Blood Froze Up, Yet Hath My Night Of Life Some Memory, My Wasting Lamps Some Fading Glimmer Left, My Dull Deaf Ears A Little Use To Hear.

Can We Outrun The Heavens?