You Know That I Do Fawn On

I That Please Some, Try All, Both Joy And Terror Of Good And Bad, That Makes And Unfolds Error.

How Poor Are They That Have Not Patience! What Wound Did Ever Heal But By Degrees?

Write Till Your Ink Be Dry, And With Your Tears Moist It Again, And Frame Some Feeling Line That May Discover Such Integrity.

Who Could Refrain That Had A Heart To Love And In That Heart Courage To Make Love Known?

Titus Andronicus, My Lord The Emperor Sends Thee This Word, That, If Thou Love Thy Sons, Let Marcus, Lucius, Or Thyself, Old Titus, Or Any One Of You, Chop Off Your Hand And Send It To The King: He For The Same Will Send Thee Hither Both Thy Sons Alive, And That Shall Be The Ransom For Their Fault.