Truth Needs No Color; Beauty,

The Ides Of March Are Come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; But Not Gone.

At This Hour Lie At My Mercy All Mine Enemies.

I Have Sounded The Very Base-string Of Humility.

Nor Aught So Good But Strained From That Fair Use, Revolts From True Birth Stumbling On Abuse.

Haply For I Am Black, And Have Not Those Soft Parts Of Conversation That Chamberers Have; Or For I Am Declined Into The Vale Of Years—yet That’s Not Much— She’s Gone. I Am Abused, And My Relief Must Be To Loathe Her. O Curse Of Marriage, That We Can Call These Delicate Creatures Ours And Not Their Appetites! I Had Rather Be A Toad And Live Upon The Vapor Of A Dungeon Than Keep A Corner In The Thing I Love For Others’ Uses. Yet ’tis The Plague Of Great Ones; Prerogatived Are They Less Than The Base. ’tis Destiny Unshunnable, Like Death.