Travelers Never Did Lie, Though Fools At

For Sorrow Ends Not, When It Seemeth Done.

Go, Write It In A Martial Hand; Be Curst And Brief; It Is No Matter How Witty, So It Be Eloquent And Fun Of Invention: Taunt Him With The Licence Of Ink: If Thou Thou'st Him Some Thrice, It Shall Not Be Amiss; And As Many Lies As Will Lie In Thy Shee.

There's Rosemary, That's For Remembrance; Pray You, Love, Remember: And There Is Pansies, That's For Thoughts. There's Fennel For You, And Columbines: — There 's Rue For You; And Here's Some For Me: — We May Call It, Herb Of Grace O'sundays: — You May Wear Your Rue With A Difference. — There's A Daisy: — I Would Give You Some Violets; But They Withered All, When My Father Died: — They Say, He Made A Good End.

I Do Profess To Be No Less Than I Seem; To Serve Him Truly That Will Put Me In Trust: To Love Him That Is Honest; To Converse With Him That Is Wise, And Says Little; To Fear Judgment; To Fight When I Cannot Choose; And To Eat No Fish.

I Have Nothing Of Woman In Me; Now From Head To Foot I Am Marble-constant.