My nature is subdued to what it works in, like the dyer's hand.
How wayward is this foolish love that, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse and presently, all humble, kiss the rod.
Weep not, sweet queen, for trickling tears are vain.
Glory is like a circle in the water
Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.
She speaks poniards, and every word stabs.