When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,

Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.
So am I as the rich, whose blessed key
Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,
The which he will not every hour survey,
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And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,

For what care I who calls me well or ill,
So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow?
You are my all the world, and I must strive
To know my shames and praises from your tongue:
None else to me, nor I to none alive,
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Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.