Ii

I do not now complain of my disgrace, O cruel fair one! fair with cruel crost; Nor of the hour, season, time, nor place; Nor of my foil, for any freedom lost; Nor of my courage, by misfortune daunted; Nor of my wit, by overweening struck; Nor of my sense, by any sound enchanted; Nor of the force of fiery-pointed hook; Nor of the steel that sticks within my wound; Nor of my thoughts, by worser thoughts defaced; Nor of the life I labour to confound. But I complain, that being thus disgraced, Fired, feared, frantic, fettered, shot through, slain, My death is such as I may not complain.