CXII

    Your love and pity doth the impression fill, Which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow； 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, That my steel'd sense or changes right or wrong. In so profound abysm I throw all care Of others' voices, that my adder's sense To critic and to flatterer stopped are. Mark how with my neglect I do dispense： You are so strongly in my purpose bred, That all the world besides methinks are dead.