The Chameleon Love Can Feed On The

Seems," Madam? Nay, It Is; I Know Not "seems." 'tis Not Alone My Inky Cloak, Good Mother, Nor Customary Suits Of Solemn Black, Nor Windy Suspiration Of Forced Breath, No, Nor The Fruitful River In The Eye, Nor The Dejected 'havior Of The Visage, Together With All Forms, Moods, Shapes Of Grief, That Can Denote Me Truly: These Indeed Seem, For They Are Actions That A Man Might Play: But I Have That Within Which Passeth Show; These But The Trappings And The Suits Of Woe.

And Sleep, That Sometime Shuts Up Sorrow's Eye, Steal Me Awhile From Mine Own Company.

Where Art Thou, Muse, That Thou Forget'st So Long / To Speak Of That Which Gives Thee All Thy Might?

There's Nothing In This World Can Make Me Joy: Life Is As Tedious As A Twice-told Tale Vexing The Dull Ear Of A Drowsy Man; And Bitter Shame Hath Spoil'd The Sweet World's Taste That It Yields Nought But Shame And Bitterness.

I Had Rather Be A Toad, And Live Upon The Vapor Of A Dungeon Than Keep A Corner In The Thing I Love For Others Uses.