Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
I'll be supposed upon a book, his face is the worst thing about him.
Strikes deeper, grows with more pernicious root.
Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious.
Then others for breath of words respect, Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.
No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.