I Must Be Gone And Live, Or

I Scorn You, Scurvy Companion.

As Chaste As Is The Bud Ere It Be Blown.

While Thou Livest Keep A Good Tongue In Thy Head.

In Thee Thy Mother Dies, Our Household's Name, My Death's Revenge, Thy Youth, And England's Fame.

His Steeds To Water At Those Springs On Chaliced Flowers That Lies; And Winking Mary-buds Begin To Ope Their Golden Eyes: With Every Thing That Pretty Is, My Lady Sweet, Arise.