The vesture of thy being; all thy motions,
Thoughts, and imaginations, thy desires,
Fancies, and dreams; whate’er from day to day
Thou art, and callst thyself, what is it all
But part of me? Art thou the beauteous branch,
I am the gnarlèd trunk that bore and bears thee;
The root that feeds. I call thee not to judgment;
Only to save what most I prize, thy name,
And mine: there’s one way that can be: Morocco
Hath taken his leave: before he leave must thou