I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul
Too much wit makes the world rotten.
And out of darkness came the hands that reach through nature, moulding men.
I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men.
A simple maiden in her flower, Is worth a hundred coats of arms.
A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips.