Oh! that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves.
I am not of that feather, to shake off my friend when he must need me
For thou hast given me in this beauteous face A world of earthly blessings to my soul, If sympathy of love unite our thoughts.
Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the feared.
Love for thy love , and hand for hand I give.
Crack'd in pieces by malignant Death.