So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, My self I'll forfeit, so that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still.

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts.

Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.

Fear and niceness, the handmaids of all women, or more truly, woman its pretty self.

Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought.

I will praise any man that will praise me.