Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
I have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
Her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love
Fie, fie, how frantically I square my talk!
O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, / That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!
What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.