The fortune of us that are the moon's men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed, as the sea is, by the moon.

For I can raise no money by vile means.

O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last, And careful hours with Time's deformed hand Have written strange defeatures in my face. But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?

Love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer, whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow

My life, my joy, my food, my ail the world!

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.