What The Great Ones Do, The Less

Thou Canst Not Speak Of What Thou Dost Not Feel.

Myself--a Prince By Fortune Of My Birth, Near To The King In Blood, And Near In Love Till You Did Make Him Misinterpret Me-- Have Stooped My Neck Under Your Injuries And Sighed My English Breath In Foreign Clouds, Eating The Bitter Bread Of Banishment, Whilst You Have Fed Upon My Signories, Disparked My Parks And Felled My Forest Woods, From My Own Windows Torn My Household Coat, Rased Out My Imprese, Leaving Me No Sign, Save Men's Opinions And My Living Blood, To Show The World I Am A Gentleman.

And She's Fair I Love.

Thou Know'st 'tis Common; All That Lives Must Die, Passing Through Nature To Eternity.

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