Within the book and volume of thy brain.

You will never age for me, nor fade, nor die.

One whom the music of his own vain tongue doth ravish like enchanting harmony.

Tis but a base, ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.

Adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them?

Her virtues, graced with external gifts, Do breed love's settled passions in my heart; And like as rigour of tempestuous gusts Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide, So am I driven by breath of her renown Either to suffer shipwreck or arrive Where I may have fruition of her love.