I Long To Hear The Story Of

Conceit, More Rich In Matter Than In Words, Brags Of His Substance, Not Of Ornament: They Are But Beggars That Can Count Their Worth; But My True Love Is Grown To Such Excess, I Cannot Sum Up Half My Sum Of Wealth.

It Provokes The Desire, But It Takes Away The Performance

I Am One, My Liege, Whom The Vile Blows And Buffets Of The World Have So Incensed That I Am Reckless What I Do To Spite The World.

Free From Gross Passion Or Of Mirth Of Anger Constant Spirit, Not Swerving With The Blood, Garnish'd And Deck'd In Modest Compliment, Not Working With The Eye Without The Ear, And But In Purged Judgement Trusting Neither? Such And So Finely Bolted Didst Thou Seem.

Determine On Some Course More Than A Wild Exposure To Each Chance.