Foul whisperings are abroad

You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense.

No doubt they rose up early to observe the rite of May; and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity.

Ere I could make thee open thy white hand, and clap thyself my love; then didst thou utter, I am your's for ever!

Free from gross passion or of mirth of anger constant spirit, not swerving with the blood, garnish'd and deck'd in modest compliment, not working with the eye without the ear, and but in purged judgement trusting neither? Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem.

Truth will come to sight; murder cannot be hid long.

Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain.