He Does Me Double Wrong That Wounds

To Beguile The Time, Look Like The Time.

If I For My Opinion Bleed, Opinion Shall Be Surgeon To My Hurt, And Keep Me On The Side Where Still I Am.

Then Will I Raise Aloft The Milk-white Rose. For Whose Sweet Smell The Air Shall Be Perfumed.

If Fortune Torments Me, Hope Contents Me.

Fore God, You Have Here A Goodly Dwelling And A Rich.