Many A Man's Tongue Shakes Out His

Flower Of This Purple Dye, Hit With Cupid's Archery, Sink In Apple Of His Eye.

Being Your Slave What Should I Do But Tend, Upon The Hours, And Times Of Your Desire? I Have No Precious Time At All To Spend; Nor Services To Do Till You Require.

It Easeth Some, Though None It Ever Cured, To Think Their Dolour Others Have Endured.

I Hold The World But As The World, Gratiano; A Stage Where Every Man Must Play A Part, And Mine Is A Sad One.

Pardon's The Word To All.