Wilt Thou Whip Thine Own Faults In

The Sands Are Number'd That Make Up My Life; Here Must I Stay, And Here My Life Must End.

Tell Them, That, To Ease Them Of Their Griefs, Their Fear Of Hostile Strokes, Their Aches, Losses, Their Pangs Of Love, With Other Incident Throes That Nature's Fragile Vessel Doth Sustain In Life's Uncertain Voyage, I Will Some Kindness Do Them.

If Fortune Torments Me, Hope Contents Me.

Fare Thee Well, King: Sith Thus Thou Wilt Appear, Freedom Lives Hence, And Banishment Is Here.

Why, All Delights Are Vain; But That Most Vain, Which, With Pain Purchas'd, Doth Inherit Pain.