My crown is in my heart, not on my head.

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.

O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!

It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

I will be treble-sinewed, hearted, breathed, And fight maliciously; for when mine hours Were nice and lucky, men did ransom lives Of me for jests; but now I'll set my teeth And send to darkness all that stop me.

And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!

Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil; With them forgive yourself.