I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman.
As you from crimes would pardon'd be, Let your indulgence set me free.
Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the feared.
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!
No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.
My only love sprung from my only hate.