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Poem	Your love and pity doth th' impression fill Which vulgar scandal stamped upon my brow; For what care I who calls me well or ill, So you o'ergreen 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 steeled 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 stoppèd 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.
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