For this relief much thanks. 'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.

Because it is a customary cross, As die to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.

I wish you all the joy that you can wish.

But the strong base and building of my love is as the very centre of the earth, drawing all things to it.

O England! Model to thy inward greatness, like little body with a might heart.

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

Virtue is chok'd with foul ambition