If You Be King, Why Should Not

My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still For That Which Longer Nurseth The Disease, Feeding On That Which Doth Preserve The Ill, Th' Uncertain Sickly Appetite To Please. My Reason, The Physician To My Love, Angry That His Prescriptions Are Not Kept, Hath Left Me, And I Desperate Now Approve Desire Is Death, Which Physic Did Except.

Now, By The World, It Is A Lusty Wench; I Love Her Ten Times More Than E'er I Did: O, How I Long To Have Some Chat With Her!

Rude Am I In My Speech, And Little Blessed With The Soft Phrase Of Peace.

Fortune Is Merry, And In This Mood Will Give Us Anything.

Much Rain Wears The Marble.