I Feel It Gone, Yet Know Not

O Wretched State! O Bosom Black As Death!

Now Old Desire Doth In His Deathbed Lie, And Young Affection Gapes To Be His Heir; That Fair For Which Love Groan'd For And Would Die, With Tender Juliet Match'd, Is Now Not Fair.

You Know That I Do Fawn On Men, And Hug Them Hard, And After Scandal Them.

A Heaven On Earth I Have Won By Wooing Thee.

As I Love The Name Of Honour More Than I Fear Death.