Ill Met By Moonlight, Proud

Let The Doors Be Shut Upon Him, That He May Play The Fool No Where But In's Own House.

I Have Of Late--but Wherefore I Know Not--lost All My Mirth, Forgone All Custom Of Exercise.

And Blind Oblivion Swallowed Cities Up.

Ere I Could Make Thee Open Thy White Hand, And Clap Thyself My Love; Then Didst Thou Utter, I Am Your's For Ever!

The Play's The Thing.