Would I Were Dead, If God's Good

Manhood Is Melted Into Courtesies, Valor Into Compliment, And Men Are Only Turned Into Tongue, And Trim Ones, Too.

I Love You More Than Word Can Wield The Matter, Dearer Than Eye-sight, Space And Liberty

Through Tattered Clothes, Small Vices Do Appear. Robes And Furred Gowns Hide All.

Do You Not Know I Am A Woman? When I Think, I Must Speak.

Death, That Hath Suck'd The Honey Of Thy Breath Hath Had No Power Yet Upon Thy Beauty.