Your Tale, Sir, Would Cure Deafness.

The Urging Of That Word, Judgment, Hath Bred A Kind Of Remorse In Me.

Let Gentleness My Strong Enforcement Be.

Here I And Sorrows Sit; Here Is My Throne, Bid Kings Come Bow To It.

There's Beggary In Love That Can Be Reckoned

That We Would Do We Should Do When We Would, For This 'would' Changes, And Hath Abatements And Delays As Many As There Are Tongues, Are Hands, Are Accidents, And Then This 'should' Is Like A Spendthrift Sigh, That Hurts By Easing.