He That Loves To Be Flattered Is

Crack'd In Pieces By Malignant Death.

Oh, God! I Have An Ill-divining Soul!

They Are Hare-brain'd Slaves.

Let Me Twine Mine Arms About That Body, Where Against My Grained Ash An Hundred Times Hath Broke And Scarr'd The Moon With Splinters: Here I Clip The Anvil Of My Sword, And Do Contest As Hotly And As Nobly With Thy Love As Ever In Ambitious Strength I Did Contend Against Thy Valour. Know Thou First, I Loved The Maid I Married; Never Man Sigh'd Truer Breath; But That I See Thee Here, Thou Noble Thing! More Dances My Rapt Heart Than When I First My Wedded Mistress Saw Bestride My Threshold.

Besides, Our Nearness To The King In Love Is Near The Hate Of Those Love Not The King.