Lady Macbeth

Such youth is to love and be loved dearest.
Thy tender beaut kept ever so savvy.
When seeds of promise, plant it’s wretched best;
Hark through, thither spurs her swain’s utmost envy:

Deepest burrows shall ought not cause more pain;
Than which her dainty grasp is ever red.
Like roses, soon soiled is the root of sane!
Art manic strife be grave upon thy head!

Scenes of treachery! Jolt that which she rued,
When shall dire hearts of stone, eye and see?
To which harrowing faults in stars reign skewed.
Bewitched vestige that yonder maddened plea,

As the maiden’s fate draws upon the hour,
Unsheathed craft of steel, yield baleful power.

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