A Book? O, Rare One,

When Truth Kills Truth, O Devilish Holy Fray!

Is It Thy Will, Thy Image Should Keep Open My Heavy Eyelids To The Weary Night? Dost Thou Desire My Slumbers Should Be Broken, While Shadows Like To Thee Do Mock My Sight? Is It Thy Spirit That Thou Send'st From Thee So Far From Home Into My Deeds To Pry, To Find Out Shames And Idle Hours In Me, The Scope And Tenor Of Thy Jealousy? O, No! Thy Love, Though Much, Is Not So Great: It Is My Love That Keeps Mine Eye Awake: Mine Own True Love That Doth My Rest Defeat, To Play The Watchman Ever For Thy Sake: For Thee Watch I, Whilst Thou Dost Wake Elsewhere, From Me Far Off, With Others All Too Near.

What's Hecuba To Him, Or He To Hecuba, That He Should Weep For Her?

Call Me What Instrument You Will, Though You Can Fret Me, You Cannot Play Upon Me.

Speak To Me As To Thy Thinkings, As Thou Dost Ruminate, And Give Thy Worst Of Thoughts The Worst Of Words.