Sufferance Is The Badge Of All Our

Words To Deeds Cold Breath Gives.

Thrust Your Head Into The Public Street, To Gaze On Christian Fools With Varnish'd Faces.

As For My Wife, I Would You Had Her Spirit In Such Another; The Third O' Th' World Is Yours, Which With A Snaffle You May Pace Easy, But Not Such A Wife.

But Shall We Wear These Glories For A Day? Or Shall They Last, And We Rejoice In Them?

Retire Me To My Milan, Where Every Third Thought Shall Be My Grave.