Virtue Itself Scapes Not Calumnious Strokes.

By Jove, I Am Not Covetous For Gold, Nor Care I Who Doth Feed Upon My Cost; It Yearns Me Not If Me My Garments Wear; Such Outward Things Dwell Not In My Desires: But If It Be A Sin To Covet Honor, I Am The Most Offending Soul Alive.

Very Good Orators, When They Are Out, They Will Spit; And For Lovers, Lacking--god Warn Us!--matter, The Cleanliest Shift Is To Kiss.

So Will I Turn Her Virtue Into Pitch, And Out Of Her Own Goodness Make The Net That Shall Enmesh Them All.

O, Let My Books Be Then The Eloquence And Dumb Presages Of My Speaking Breast.

The Lily I Condemned For Thy Hand, And Buds Of Marjoram Had Stol'n Thy Hair: The Roses Fearfully On Thorns Did Stand, One Blushing Shame, Another White Despair; A Third, Nor Red Nor White, Had Stol'n Of Both And To His Robbery Had Annex'd Thy Breath; But, For His Theft, In Pride Of All His Growth A Vengeful Canker Eat Him Up To Death. More Flowers I Noted, Yet I None Could See But Sweet Or Colour It Had Stol'n From Thee.