Though I Be But Prince Of Wales,

I Think The King Is But A Man As I Am: The Violet Smells To Him As It Doth To Me.

Angels Are Bright Still, Though The Brightest Fell.

And Where The Offense Is, Let The Great Axe Fall.

They Do Not Abuse The King That Flatter Him. For Flattery Is The Bellows Blows Up Sin; The Thing The Which Is Flattered, But A Spark To Which That Blast Gives Heat And Stronger Glowing.

Love Is A Smoke Rais'd With The Fume Of Sighs; Being Purg'd, A Fire Sparkling In Lovers' Eyes; Being Vex'd, A Sea Nourish'd With Lovers' Tears; What Is It Else? A Madness Most Discreet, A Choking Gall, And A Preserving Sweet.