O God, I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.

Ornament is but the guiled shore to a most dangerous sea.

A knot you are of damned bloodsuckers.

An honest tale speeds best being plainly told.

Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep.

The wounds invisible that Love's keen arrows make.

Then is it sin to rush into the secret house of death. Ere death dare come to us?