Give me my sin again.
O, full of scorpions is my mind!
Right joyous are we to behold your face, Most worthy brother England; fairly met!
I shall show the cinders of my spirits Through the ashes of my chance.
O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable
Care I for the limb, the thews, the stature, bulk, and big assemblance of a man! Give me the spirit.