That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.

Highly fed and lowly taught.

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, than women's are.

Gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it light.

Right joyous are we to behold your face, Most worthy brother England; fairly met!

Never; he will not: Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety: other women cloy The appetites they feed: but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies.

O good old man, how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed! Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat but for promotion, And having that do choke their service up Even with the having. . . .