I Wish My Horse Had The Speed

To Think But Nobly Of My Grandmother: Good Wombs Have Borne Bad Sons.

Mine Eyes Were Not In Fault, For She Was Beautiful; Mine Ears, That Heard Her Flattery; Nor My Heart, That Thought Her Like Her Seeming. It Had Been Vicious To Have Mistrusted Her.

I Fill Up A Place, Which May Be Better... When I Have Made It Empty.

Now The Fair Goddess, Fortune, Fall Deep In Love With Thee, And Her Great Charms Misguide Thy Opposers' Swords!

Mercy Is Not Itself, That Oft Looks So; Pardon Is Still The Nurse Of Second Woe.