Love for thy love , and hand for hand I give.

Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wavering multitude, Can play upon it.

As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.

You may my Glories and my State depose, But not my Griefes; still am I King of those.

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind; So flew'd, so sanded; their heads are hung with ears that sweep away the morning dew.

No, no, I am but shadow of myself: You are deceived, my substance is not here.

But here's the joy: my friend and I are one, Sweet flattery!