Journeys End In Lovers Meeting.

Things Sweet To Taste Prove In Digestion Sour.

We Do Not Keep The Outward Form Of Order, Where There Is Deep Disorder In The Mind.

Thou Art Most Rich, Being Poor; Most Choice, Forsaken; And Most Lov'd, Despis'd! Thee And Thy Virtues Here I Seize Upon.

This Rough Magic I Here Abjure And When I Have Required Some Heavenly Music, Which Even Now I Do, To Work Mine End Upon Their Senses That This Airy Charm Is For, I'll Break My Staff, Bury It Certain Fathoms In The Earth, And Deeper Than Did Ever Plummet Sound, I'll Drown My Book.

Thanks, Sir; All The Rest Is Mute.