Juliet, my Tragedy, speak not of love That hence from yonder myth doth breed Another, and another, and another Ephemeral dove, together birthed as steed! The flock moveth as an all-consuming cloud, Carrying that which all mine hopes dream to be; And if the story hath spoiled in the end, Shall not I revel still in its acidity? Nay! Thine eyes are full with worldly flavor Befitting the palates of ancient gods. No blood of mine nor friend nor enemy Could quit my stomach's quarrel with odds. What youthful folly, of which they speak, Cannot begin to know the wealth of heart That turns rich this lonesome beggar's soul. Malignant Fates! But even then, I depart This droughted world, to seek for you at Lethe. All we shall know is Love, after Death.