We talk of taxes, and I call you friend; 
Well, such you are,“but well enough we know 
How thick about us root, how rankly grow 
Those subtle weeds no man has need to tend, 
That flourish through neglect, and soon must send 
Perfume too sweet upon us and overthrow 
Our steady senses; how such matters go 
We are aware, and how such matters end. 
Yet shall be told no meagre passion here; 
With lovers such as we forevermore 
Isolde drinks the draught, and Guinevere 
Receives the Table's ruin through her door, 
Francesca, with the loud surf at her ear, 
Lets fall the colored book upon the floor.