Faint Heart Never Won Fair

So Many Miseries Have Craz'd My Voice, That My Woe-wearied Tongue Is Still And Mute.

No Reckoning Made, But Sent To My Account With All My Imperfections On My Head.

But I, That Am Not Shaped For Sportive Tricks, Nor Made To Court An Amorous Looking-glass; I, That Am Rudely Stamped, And Want Love's Majesty To Strut Before A Wanton Ambling Nymph.

Gentle And Low, An Excellent Thing In Woman.

O Polished Perturbation! Golden Care! That Keep'st The Ports Of Slumber Open Wide To Many A Watchful Night.