You Cannot, Sir, Take From Me Any

In Struggling With Misfortunes Lies The True Proof Of Virtue.

But I, That Am Not Shaped For Sportive Tricks, Nor Made To Court An Amorous Looking-glass; I, That Am Rudely Stamped, And Want Love's Majesty To Strut Before A Wanton Ambling Nymph; I, That Am Curtailed Of This Fair Proportion, Cheated Of Feature By Dissembling Nature, Deformed, Unfinished, Sent Before My Time Into This Breathing World, Scarce Half Made Up, And That So Lamely And Unfashionable That Dogs Bark At Me As I Halt By Them,-- Why, I, In This Weak Piping Time Of Peace, Have No Delight To Pass Away The Time, Unless To Spy My Shadow In The Sun.

Suspicion Shall Be All Stuck Full Of Eyes.

Love And Meekness, Lord, Become A Churchman Better Than Ambition: Win Straying Souls With Modesty Again, Cast None Away.

No, By My Soul, I Never In My Life Did Hear A Challenge Urged More Modestly, Unless A Brother Should A Brother Dare To Gentle Exercise And Proof Of Arms.