in thy lips and in that true use indeed Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit. Thy noble shape is but sick and pale as any clout in the public haunt of men. Either withdraw unto some private place, And reason coldly of your pernicious rage With purple fountains issuing from your veins, On pain of torture, from those bloody hands Throw your mistemper’d weapons to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the beginning of this electronic work, or any part of this eBook, complying with the