I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap
Discharge my followers; let them hence away, From Richard's night to Bolingbrooke's fair day.
He that is strucken blind can not forget the precious treasure of his eyesight lost.
However wickedness outstrips men, it has no wings to fly from God.
Yea from the table of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial fond records.
Sin, that amends, is but patched with virtue.