But Like Of Each Thing That In

O Coward Conscience, How Dost Thou Afflict Me!

And Nothing Is, But What Is Not.

None Can Cure Their Harms By Wailing Them.

This Royal Throne Of Kings, This Sceptered Isle, This Earth Of Majesty, This Seat Of Mars, This Other Eden, Demi-paradise, This Fortress Built By Nature For Herself Against Infection And The Hand Of War, This Happy Breed Of Men, This Little World, This Precious Stone Set In The Silver Sea, Which Serves It In The Office Of A Wall Or As A Moat Defensive To A House, Against The Envy Of Less Happier Lands,--this Blessed Plot, This Earth, This Realm, This England.

If You Did Wed My Sister For Her Wealth, Then For Her Wealth's Sake Use Her With More Kindness; Or, If You Like Elsewhere, Do It By Stealth; Muffle Your False Love With Some Show Of Blindness; Let Not My Sister Read It In Your Eye; Be Not Thy Tongue Thy Own Shame's Orator; Look Sweet, Speak Fair, Become Disloyalty; Apparel Vice Like Virtue's Harbinger; Bear A Fair Presence, Though Your Heart Be Tainted; Teach Sin The Carriage Of A Holy Saint; Be Secret-false.