Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.

The king hath note of all that they intend, by interception which they dream not of.

All things are ready, if our mind be so.

My charity is outrage, life my shame; And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!

All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold.

For I am proverbed with a grandsire phrase.

I'll fight, till from my bones my flesh be hacked.