Beware The Ides Of March.

It Were A Grief So Brief To Part With Thee. Farewell.

The Benediction Of These Covering Heavens Fall On Their Heads Like Dew, For They Are Worthy To Inlay Heaven With Stars.

My Falcon Now Is Sharp And Passing Empty, And Till She Stoop She Must Not Be Full-gorged, For Then She Never Looks Upon Her Lure.

Then Let Thy Love Be Younger Than Thyself, Or Thy Affection Cannot Hold The Bent.

Age, I Do Abhor Thee, Youth, I Do Adore Thee.