Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, when time is old and hath forgot itself, when waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, and blind oblivion swallowed cities up, and mighty states characterless are grated to dusty nothing, yet let memory, from false to false, among false maids in love, upbraid my falsehood!

Here's that which is too weak to be a sinner, honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire.

These words are razors to my wounded heart.

The painful warrior famous for fight, After a thousand victories, once foil'd, Is from the books of honor razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd

A ministering angel shall my sister be.

Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light.

Done to death by slanderous tongue