The Band That Seems To

I Am Not Prone To Weeping As Our Sex Commonly Are; The Want Of Which Vain Dew Perchance Shall Dry Your Pities; But I Have That Honorable Grief Lodged Here Which Burns Worse Than Tears Drown.

For My Part, I May Speak It To My Shame, I Have A Truant Been To Chivalry; And So I Hear He Doth Account Me Too.

To Bed, To Bed; Sleep Kill Those Pretty Eyes, And Give As Soft Attachment To Thy Senses, As Infants Empty Of All Thought.

Within The Hollow Crown That Rounds The Mortal Temples Of A King Keeps Death His Court.

For Sorrow Ends Not, When It Seemeth Done.