Shall I compare thee to a dying cat?
Though art more helpless and more deafening:
Rough winds do shake the tassels of your curling mat,
And your piercing voice hath all to high a range:
Sometimes too loud the voice of torture cries,
And often his mute button is left in pieces;
And every hair on the back of your neck begins to rise,
By fright or by pain increases;
But thy pitchy voice shall not die,
Nor loosen it's grip around my throat;
Nor shall death come as you moan and cry,
Even when you start to quote;
As I lay me down to sleep I pray thee lord my soul to keep,
If I should die before I wake I pray thee lord my soul to take.