Sir, In My Heart There

O Braggart Vile And Damned Furious Wight!

For As A Surfeit Of The Sweetest Things The Deepest Loathing To The Stomach Brings, Or As Tie Heresies That Men Do Leave Are Hated Most Of Those They Did Deceive, So Thou, My Surfeit And My Heresy, Of All Be Hated, But The Most Of Me!

In Black Ink My Love May Still Shine Bright.

Then Let Thy Love Be Younger Than Thyself, Or Thy Affection Cannot Hold The Bent.

Because I Cannot Flatter And Look Fair, Smile In Men's Faces, Smooth, Deceive, And Cog, Duck With French Nods And Apish Courtesy, I Must Be Held A Rancorous Enemy.