I Am Not In The Giving Vein

I'll Forbear; And Am Fallen Out With My More Headier Will To Take The Indisposed And Sickly Fit For The Sound Man.

Flower Of This Purple Dye, Hit With Cupid's Archery, Sink In Apple Of His Eye.

My Crown Is In My Heart, Not On My Head; Not Decked With Diamonds And Indian Stones, Nor To Be Seen: My Crown Is Called Content, A Crown It Is That Seldom Kings Enjoy.

Conscience Is A Blushing, Shamefaced Spirit Than Mutinies In A Man's Bosom; It Fills One Full Of Obstacles.

If He Be So Resolved, I Can O'ersway Him; For He Loves To Hear That Unicorns May Be Betrayed With Trees And Bears With Glasses, Elephants With Holes, Lions With Toils, And Men With Flatterers