Conscience Is A Thousand Swords.

Tired With All These For Restful Death I Cry, As To Behold Desert A Beggar Born, And Needy Nothing Trimmed In Jollity, And Purest Faith Unhappily Forsworn.

Now, Good Digestion Wait On Appetite, And Health On Both!

My Prophecy Is But Half His Journey Yet, For Yonder Walls, That Pertly Front Your Town, Yon Towers, Whose Wanton Tops Do Buss The Clouds, Must Kiss Their Own Feet.

The Tartness Of His Face Sours Ripe Grapes.

That You Were Once Unkind Befriends Me Now, And For That Sorrow, Which I Then Did Feel, Needs Must I Under My Transgression Bow, Unless My Nerves Were Brass Or Hammered Steel.