If It Be True That Good Wine

Besides, Our Nearness To The King In Love Is Near The Hate Of Those Love Not The King.

Tis Not The Many Oaths That Make The Truth; But The Plain Single Vow, That Is Vow'd True.

Here Feel We But The Penalty Of Adam, The Seasons' Difference, As The Icy Fang And Churlish Chiding Of The Winter's Wind, Which, When It Bites And Blows Upon My Body, Even Till I Shrink With Cold, I Smile.

Either Our History Shall With Full Mouth Speak Freely Of Our Acts, Or Else Our Grave, Like Turkish Mute, Shall Have A Tongueless Mouth, Not Worshipped With A Waxen Epitaph.

Avaunt, You Cullions!