Sleep all day, drink your life away, it’s another step closer to the comfort of the grave.

And you’re more beautiful than you were on the day that we first met, my Angel of The Not-Yet-Buried-Dead.

Where the corpses of our motivations hang, on the gallows over-ripe with shit like colostomy bags.

Catching up on nothing in the basement I call home, dismantling discussions on a piss-soaked telephone.

 One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace.

Rich she shall be, that’s certain; wise, or I’ll none; virtuous, or I’ll never cheapen her; fair, or I’ll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what colour it please God.

I have known when there was no music with him but the drum and the fife; and now had he rather hear the tabour and the pipe:

I have known when he would have walked ten mile a foot to see a good armour; and now will he lie ten nights awake, carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier; and now is he turned orthography; his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes.

May I be so converted and see with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not.

I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviors to love,

will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by failing in love:

and such a man is Claudio.