thy love, thy wit, Which, like a usurer, abound’st in all, And usest none in that true use indeed Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit, Which, like a drunkard reels From forth day’s pathway, made by Titan’s fiery wheels Now, ere the time the potion’s force should cease. But he that shot so trim When King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid. He heareth not, he moveth not; The ape is dead,