They Whose Guilt Within Their Bosom Lies,

O Me, You Juggler, You Canker-blossom, You Thief Of Love!

Having Nothing, Nothing Can He Lose.

Then Hate Me When Thou Wilt, If Ever, Now.

O, Here Will I Set Up My Everlasting Rest And Shake The Yoke Of Inauspicious Stars From The World-wearied Flesh

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose.