An Honest Man, Sir, Is Able To

My Crown Is In My Heart, Not On My Head; Not Decked With Diamonds And Indian Stones, Nor To Be Seen: My Crown Is Called Content, A Crown It Is That Seldom Kings Enjoy.

He Does Me Double Wrong That Wounds Me With The Flatteries Of His Tongue.

Things Done Well And With A Care, Exempt Themselves From Fear.

When I Waked, I Cried To Dream Again

Thine Eyes I Love, And They, As Pitying Me, Knowing Thy Heart Torment Me With Disdain, Have Put On Black And Loving Mourners Be, Looking With Pretty Ruth Upon My Pain. And Truly Not The Morning Sun Of Heaven Better Becomes The Grey Cheeks Of The East, Nor That Full Star That Ushers In The Even, Doth Half That Glory To The Sober West, As Those Two Mourning Eyes Become Thy Face: O! Let It Then As Well Beseem Thy Heart To Mourn For Me Since Mourning Doth Thee Grace, And Suit Thy Pity Like In Every Part. Then Will I Swear Beauty Herself Is Black, And All They Foul That Thy Complexion Lack