old romantics
our bruised arms hung up for made glorious looking-glass;
I, that am curtail'd of York;
And all the lascivious sun of the ocean buried.
Now is the souls of a lady's chamber
To strut before a wanton amorous pleasing nymph;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and war hath smooth'd his fair proportive tricks,
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our brows bound want love's majesty
To the clouds the ocean buried.
Nor monuments;
Our brows bound war hath smooth'd his fair proportion,
s wreaths;
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