Mine Eyes Smell Onions: I

For Truth Hath Better Deeds Than Words To Grace It.

Beshrew The Heart That Makes My Heart To Groan.

I Am A Kind Of Burr; I Shall Stick.

But Thou Art Fair, And At Thy Birth, Dear Boy, Nature And Fortune Join'd To Make Thee Great: Of Nature's Gifts Thou Mayst With Lilies Boast, And With The Half-blown Rose; But Fortune, O!

O, Reason Not The Need!