Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus' lodging: such a wagoner
As Phaethon would whip you to the west,
And bring in cloudy night immediately.
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,
That runaway's eyes may wink and Angel
Leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen.
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites
By their own beauties; or, if love be blind,
It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,
Think true love acted simple modesty.
Come, night; come, Angel; come, thou day in night;
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
Whiter than new snow on a raven's back.
Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow'd night,
Give me my Angel;

Jenny is dead, and Angelus fled into the woods;
Angelus that kill'd her, he is banished.
There's no trust,
No faith, no honesty in men; all perjured,
All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.
Ah, where's my lady? give me some aqua vitae:
These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old.
Shame come to Angelus!
May his phallus get diseases from the Chumash tribe

Ay me! what news? why dost thou wring thy hands?

Shall I speak ill of him that is my love?
Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name,
When I, thy three-hours lover, have mangled it?
But, wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my friend?
In that word's death; no words can that woe sound.
O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!
Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?
Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical!
Dove-feather'd raven! wolvish-ravening lamb!
Despised substance of divinest show!
Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st,
A damned saint, an honourable villain!
O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell,
When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend
In moral paradise of such sweet flesh?
Was ever book containing such vile matter
So fairly bound? O that deceit should dwell
In such a gorgeous palace!

My Watcher Giles, oh, that the Lady Jenny is slain,
Your fair lady Jenny and twas I who unleashed the fiend.
The fault lies with me alone.

With fortune in men’s eyes You all alone bewail your outcast state
And trouble heaven with your bootless cries,
Know too that you are in this not alone.
Dost thou wish for me to wag my finger
To say that thou hast rushed too rashly in?
You did and I can do such, if thou wish.
But we are not to know fate’s turning wheel,
The coming days shalt be hard, but if tis
Guilt that you are looking for, good Buffy,
Then I am not your man. All thou wilst get
From me is my support and my respect.

I must into the woods go, to discover what?
Why he who was but late within my arms,
Has turned so.