Why cowl thy face beneath the Mourner’s hood,

So should that beauty which you hold in lease Find no determination: then you were Yourself again after yourself's decease […]

For thee 'tis ill; / Although thou know'st it not. Thou ne'er shall see / The bosomy sail that brings thee safety here. / We are not idiots, comrades!

I'm ready and raring to go; I can hardly wait to get there.