Love is a wonderful, terrible thing
And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And asleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me must be heard of, say, I taught thee.
Music, moody food Of us that trade in love.
What my tongue dares not that my heart shall say
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this; for it will come to pass That every braggart will be found an ass.