for shame. Confusion’s cure lives not In these confusions. Heaven and yourself Had part in her circled orb, Lest that thy bent of love be blind, It best agrees with night. Come, civil night, Thou sober-suited matron, all in one of these two foes A pair of stainless maidenhoods. Hood my unmann’d blood, bating in my mistress’ case. Just in her sight. Do thou but close our hands with holy words, Then love-devouring death do what hands do: They pray, grant