O, My Offence Is Rank, It Smells

Fair Youth, I Would I Could Make Thee Believe I Love.

If Our Virtues Did Not Go Forth Of Us, It Were All Alike As If We Had Them Not.

Myself--a Prince By Fortune Of My Birth, Near To The King In Blood, And Near In Love Till You Did Make Him Misinterpret Me-- Have Stooped My Neck Under Your Injuries And Sighed My English Breath In Foreign Clouds, Eating The Bitter Bread Of Banishment, Whilst You Have Fed Upon My Signories, Disparked My Parks And Felled My Forest Woods, From My Own Windows Torn My Household Coat, Rased Out My Imprese, Leaving Me No Sign, Save Men's Opinions And My Living Blood, To Show The World I Am A Gentleman.

Nay Then, Let The Devil Wear Black, For I'll Have A Suit Of Sables.

I Understand Thy Kisses, And Thou Mine, And That's A Feeling Disputation.