Thy Words, I Grant Are

O, Thou Hast Damnable Iteration; And Art, Indeed, Able To Corrupt A Saint.

Right Joyous Are We To Behold Your Face, Most Worthy Brother England; Fairly Met!

Tis In Ourselves That We Are Thus, Or Thus.

Come, Gentlemen, I Hope We Shall Drink Down All Unkindness.

Yet Mark'd I Where The Bolt Of Cupid Fell: It Fell Upon A Little Western Flower, Before Milk-white, Now Purple With Love's Wound, And Maidens Call It Love-in-idleness.