This Look Of Thine Will Hurl My

Time Shall Unfold What Plaited Cunning Hides: Who Cover Faults, At Last Shame Them Derides.

Rude Am I In My Speech, And Little Blessed With The Soft Phrase Of Peace.

O Faithless Coward! O Dishonest Wretch! Wilt Thou Be Made A Man Out Of My Vice?

She Moves Me Not, Or Not Removes At Least Affection's Edge In Me.

Do Not For One Repulse, Forego The Purpose That You Resolved To Effect.