By Heaven, my soul is purg'd from grudging hate; And with my hand I seal my true heart's love
I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo to in festival terms.
Men's faults do seldom to themselves appear.
Men's evil manners live in brass; their virtues we write in water.
Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight
Opinion crowns with an imperial voice.