Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor
There's no trust, No faith, no honesty in men; all perjured, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.
By heaven, I do love: and it hath taught me to rhyme, and to be mekancholy.
Love for thy love , and hand for hand I give.
Hung be the heavens with black! Yield, day, to night!
I am a feather for each wind that blows