in black ink my love may still shine bright.

Then love-devouring Death do what he dare.

Wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men?

Well could he ride, and often men would say, "That horse his mettle from his rider takes: Proud of subjection, noble by the sway, What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop he makes!" And controversy hence a question takes, Whether the horse by him became his deed, Or he his manage by the well-doing steed.

A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. *She’s a stubborn little brat.*

Have more than you show, Speak less than you know.

This liberty is all that I request.